


Burning Bright, In the Forests of the Night

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Body Horror, Burns, Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Desolation Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical The Web Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Desolation Avatar Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Established Relationship, Fire, Getting Together, Injury, Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood, Long, M/M, Major Character Injury, Manipulation, Monster Boyfriends, Multi, Partial Mind Control, Past Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker - Freeform, Post-Apocalypse, Scopophobia, Season/Series 05, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-blaming, Temporary Break Up, The Beholding, The Desolation, The Lonely - Freeform, The Web - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, War, Web Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, injury detail
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27915400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: The safehouse bursts into flames at their backs.Even in the apocalypse, you can make choices. If a spider says it's possible, you can change the path your tread. That fire in the distance might be an old friend. Really, would it be so much worse to change who you are?
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 19
Kudos: 44
Collections: TMA Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TMA Big Bang 2020. Posted in the second hiatus of Series 5, and while plot aspects do deviate, a lot of individual episode settings and details will feature up until that point (Episode 189: Peers). I can list the individual episodes mentioned if requested.
> 
> I was lucky enough to work with multiple incredible betas on this fic: bookofwildes, vanroesburg, drumkonwords and goth-archivist. This fic would not be in its present state without them. I also managed to score art from three very talented artists: zelvuska, bisexualoftheblade, and happyfunballxd! All of these people are absolutely stunning and deserve all the love you'd care to throw their way. Also a massive shout-out to flightinflame, who has been reading and encouraging this ridiculousness despite never having listened to this podcast and is therefore the best friend ever.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin set out on a journey that is very familiar.

The safehouse bursts into flames at their backs.

It was evil, yes, insofar as anything's 'evil' in the apocalypse. It was devouring them, preying on the both of them – on _Jon_. Martin had wanted Jon to be safe, and Jon had wanted to stay. There's...really not a whole lot Martin wouldn't do, if it made Jon happy. Only he hadn't been happy, had he? He'd barely been Jon.

The door hadn't opened easily. It had fought back, whining and growling as the walls had begun to shrink in, closer and closer. _Why did they want to leave? Hadn't the house given them everything?_ Martin had seen that hesitation in Jon's face, the guilt, the turn back towards the known and away from, well, the Known. The thing is, that feeling has haunted Martin all his life: _Can't you do one thing for me, after I’ve given you so much?_ So he’d thought of a care home in Devon, fog on the sea, and he’d turned the handle, and he’d forced the door open. Once there was a crack, it had been so much easier, like something was holding it open for him. If he’d looked down, he might have seen mist.

They'd been happy in that house, Martin thinks as he watches what had taken over the house burn. That bright blaze of orange and yellow tears sharp shadows into the dull darkness all around them, and the way it chases and surges, devouring, is more alive than Martin's felt the last few days. Watching its leaps and bounds, he can remember that it hadn't been all bad. The memories of laughing over tea and the memories of Jon wasting away over his tapes had both happened in the same place, either side of everything going wrong again. 

The apocalypse had ripped its way past him back then, only a few minutes down the track. The ground had turned to grasping mud, the sky had opened wide overhead, and Martin had known something was watching him. And then, as he'd almost fallen and distant howls had grown closer and his own bones had begun to turn against him, everything had gone silent. Muffled. No ground or howls or bones. He'd found his way home through the fog. At least, that’s what he’d thought, since the fog never actually led you home. Not really.

Days of hearing Jon's hysterical laugh in his ears. Days of watching Jon curl ever closer, as the house swallowed him up. Days of trying to act normally because Jon didn't want things to be different and falling back into old routines of action and thought. 

It's about being helpful. It's about not intruding. It's about enabling.

The flames grow higher and Martin doesn't know what to think, so he looks at Jon instead. It's funny in a way that isn't really funny: him watching Jon watching the actual event. Appropriate, probably.

He knows Jon is watching even though Jon has done his best to cover his eyes – all of his eyes. It's not enough, though, to hide inside Martin’s hoodie, or to pull gloves over his hands, denim and cotton and wool concealing eyes upon eyes. With his coat pulled tight around him, Jon should be just a silhouette, especially against the brightness of the flame burning itself into the apocalyptic night, but Martin can still see the green glow emanating from within the hood. ‘The sickly light’, that's what Jon called it when he'd pulled himself out of the old recordings long enough to blink blearily at the present.

When Martin had run home through the fog, he'd found Jon lying there in the debris that had ripped its way through the window, torn apart the living room, the remnants around them all awash in a dim green glow that reminded him of deep sea caves and creatures out of childhood nightmares. It had come from Jon, all of it: all of his eyes, lining his limbs and his face, all open save for the two in the centre of his face. Honestly, as much as Martin had wanted Jon to wake up, he'd already known that he didn't want to see the moment it all became true, and that dark endless brown that he had finally been able to gaze into openly was lost forever. Only the glowing green irises left; the same irises which he'd seen come and go in the blank nothingness of the sky, every time he'd looked out of the window.

Hard to say what Jon's thinking, watching the safehouse burn. Hard to say what Martin's feeling, come to that. He looks at that house where they found each other over two endless weeks and he feels the cold inside him that's kept the apocalypse away. He lifts up his hand and it almost looks human, awash in a colour that isn't grey or green. This is the first time that Jon's been outside.

The building screams in its death-throes.

"Did you know that was going to happen?" Martin asks.

Jon shakes his head, although Martin isn't sure whether it’s denial or trying to clear some space for his thoughts besides the Watcher. "Did you?" he asks in reply.

The fire was so...sudden, a whoomph of both ignition and explosion that almost knocked Martin off of his feet. How is it they can still see the shape of the house then, when it should already be unrecognisable? Instead, it somehow looks more where they'd found a home than ever before.

"We had to leave," Martin says. "It...wasn't good for you, at the end."

"At the end, perhaps." The shadow inside Jon's hood seems to darken, the light cast by his eyes no longer enough to show the curve of his mouth. Or maybe the firelight can't pierce it anymore. "I..." Jon swallows. Martin jumps a little when he feels wool against his palm – Jon holding his hand. "I'm sorry. I know it meant a lot to you."

Martin sighs. Stood at the end of the garden, he'd listened to distant screams in the fog and tasted salt. Caught between the horrors outside and his own horror inside, unable to help with either. "It did, yeah." Whenever something's important to him, the world has a way of twisting it. He can't exactly blame eldritch fear gods for that. It's just people.

He squeezes Jon's hand. At first, he'd been worried about hurting all those eyes every time that he'd touched him. Finding him collapsed on the ground, Martin thinks it had been more his terrified pleas which had woken him up than the incredibly tentative touches around the birdbone of his original eye sockets, fluttering strokes around the new bumps in cheekbones or outlining new wounds in his neck.. Since then, though...either he doesn't care as much (except it's Jon) or he's starting to get a feel for which bits matter. After all, it's not like the Ceaseless Watcher is going to get thwarted by, what, Martin prodding it?

Quietly, against the background of the roaring flames (how long should a fire that fierce last, anyway?), Martin says, "You mean more, though."

Jon tilts his head, and his smile is washed in red.

\---

Jon destroyed the world, and he didn't even mean to.

That doesn't make it alright, of course. Nothing will ever make it alright. Martin might not blame him, but Martin struggles to blame anyone who isn't himself or Elias. It's surprisingly appealing, that anger beneath Martin's skin, that shows in flashes through fog, a spice of feeling. Perhaps that’s half the appeal: a flavour to events, a way of processing beyond tired observation – an anchor. After all, Jon struggles with anger now that it feels so very pointless to him. No absolution, no excuses, no escape from what he’s done.

Jon destroyed the world because Elias tricked him. Because Elias found a way to speak through him; to put his words in Jon's mouth, force his lips and teeth apart to exhale death upon the world. No, not death, that's not their god – and Jon knows intimately that the Watcher is his god now, knows it with the weight on his brow of the crown Elias spoke of.

Did Jonah know that a crown was inevitable, or did it become inevitable once Jonah imagined it so? Pointless to hypothesise, really. In this new place, this new life as what they have called an avatar, everything is either a known fact or it isn't. Like only ever having the puzzles open at the answers page. Is it even worth trying to work out what the original puzzle looked like?

Jon does not enjoy being puppeted. He never has. Nevertheless, people keep finding a way to do so, through books and statements and teased-out morsels. Really, Jon could have saved everyone a lot of trouble if he'd never learnt to read. If you go back up his family tree, it doesn't take long to find whole generations who were mostly illiterate. His grandmother used to lecture him about the privileges of their life here, the _opportunities_ (Jon always flinches when people say that), so he knows full well that he doomed himself by pursuing knowledge from the very beginning. Perhaps it's a very Eye-centric fantasy: living in ignorance. Once upon a time, Jon had feared that so much. Feared the road not taken, or rather the road barely avoided if you believed the way his grandmother told it. 'Take nothing for granted,' she'd said, and so he'd never thought of turning down the Head Archivist position despite the offer not once making sense.

Hard to say whether he remembers destroying the world, exactly. 'Remembers' isn't quite the word for how the statements appear in his mind. It's a little too...conscious. Too aware. There are stories living inside him now: one for every voice, every eye. It means that even if he can't See Elias the way Martin would like, he knows how Elias smiled as he wrote that letter. It was the same way he'd smiled when Jon signed his contract.

In his head, a man reads a statement. A monster, really, but a monster with only two eyes which only caught light when feeding. The light grows stronger and stronger, new points bursting and breaking through the monster's skin, until you realise those are eyes. Jon doesn't remember how he felt. He thinks he tried to fight it, but only because the statement says that he did. The same words telling him that he was not in control – has never been in control.

"You amaze me," he says out loud. There are so many voices inside him that sometimes he needs to speak to recognise his own.

Beside him – always beside him – Martin says, "What?"

Jon repeats "You amaze me," because Martin has to hear this.

"...Okay," Martin says slowly. "I'm not – What brought that on?"

Martin doesn't believe him. For all the fog hiding his mind, for all that Jonathan Sims as a human always struggled with people, Jon can tell that Martin doesn't believe him. That's okay. He always knew Martin wouldn't. "Thinking about you," he says, which isn't exactly true in terms of the precise thought but there are so many thoughts happening at once, information in parallel, and Jon holds tight to Martin. "You and Elias. You and Peter."

Martin flinches without letting go. "Not sure what you're getting at, Jon."

"They underestimated you," Jon says. "And you knew they did. And you saw an opportunity," now it’s Jon’s turn to flinch, "and you took it. You bided your time. It's – " He takes a deep, unnecessary breath. "It's amazing."

They keep moving forwards. Their pace is steady, save for when Jon can taste a domain and can't help the way his limbs move faster. Stopping helps the illusion of humanity – of normality.

"I don't see how that's amazing," Martin says. "At all. I never actually helped with anything. I never actually made a difference." He pauses. "No good differences, anyway."

Jon frowns. "What do you mean?"

"Well, getting Elias – Jonah – locked away didn't stop your coma, did it?" Martin says. "So he still won. And going along with Peter's plan didn't stop you hurting yourself. It just made sure you got your mark."

"I would have been marked either way," Jon says. "Elias would have made sure of that."

"You don't know that," Martin says instantly. Then he asks, "Wait, do you? I thought you weren't so good on the 'ifs' and 'maybes'."

"Hypotheticals," Jon says, as if they need to hear the word. "And no, I only Know facts but... Elias had a plan. He always did."

Martin's hand squeezes his again. "Jonah."

"I hardly think the exact name matters anymore." When you have a shadow in your life responsible for tearing you apart and remaking you into a nightmare, disputing names feels rather petty. "You read the statement as well as me, Martin. A plan for every occasion."

"Only because it all worked," Martin scoffs. "It's easy to claim credit like that, after it’s all happened. It's what people like him _do_." Martin's hands had gone white around the statement, which had ripped under the pressure. It didn't matter. After Jon read it, the words were just ink on paper, no taste to them anymore. "You can't blame yourself," he adds, for all that he must realise he can't stop him.

"A thousand and one plans," Jon says with a sigh. "I really thought I could blame the Web as well. Did you hear about that?" Hard to say exactly what Martin knew about when. They’d tried assembling a timeline when the safehouse had actually been safe, except going over all of it hurt too deeply. More for Martin than for Jon, which of course meant that Jon insisted on breaking off every five minutes to hold him close and try to chase away the chill in his bones. The Lonely hid Martin away for so long. Jon wants to discover him on their own terms, as human as they can manage.

Martin only looks a little less disgusted about the Web than Elias. Imagine, Jon had used to dread another speech about spiders' place in the ecosystem. "At least with the Web, that's their thing. Jonah got lucky, that's all. Or are you saying he's Web too?"

Jon sighs, leaning his head against Martin's shoulder (more his arm, of course, with the height difference, but if anything that makes it better). "Lines blur, Martin. No, I think Elias thinks he's rather above the Web, which all but guarantees that the Web would say that's part of their schemes. Wheels within wheels. Trying to comprehend the Web... It's not unlike when I used to try to see you."

Martin comes to a halt, so Jon does too. You have to, when the other person might be the only thing keeping you upright. Jon waits. He can wait for Martin forever; for a while there, he thought he'd have to.

"I didn't know you tried that hard," Martin says. Jon knows he’s the one hearing it as an accusation. He knows because Martin's voice has gone distant, blank. This had happened before, often, back when they were the broken ones and not the whole world. The train trip, the long drive, the days in the cottage with nobody else around: every so often, with the wrong word (sometimes not even that), Martin would simply go numb. Jon could roll out as many facts or as much logic as he wanted whenever it happened; knowledge is only so strong against the Lonely.

"I did," Jon tells him anyway. "Sat at my desk. I always knew you were there, a few floors up – well, not _Knew_ , but I... It's hard to explain." He presses his fingers gingerly to his forehead. Eyes blink against his fingertips and he snatches them away. Right. No hiding anymore. He pulls his hood further forwards.

"Jon, I – " Martin sighs, resting his hand on the cotton but not pulling it back again. He hates that Jon's hiding. No spooky powers required for that insight.

"No more saying you're sorry. We agreed on that," Jon reminds him.

"It's not stopped you, I notice."

"We agreed before the apocalypse. We didn't say it extended indefinitely."

Martin presses his mouth against Jon's head, and several of Jon’s eyelids flutter at the closeness of _feeling_. Martin laughs. "You're such a brat sometimes."

The response which springs to Jon's tongue is _Better than a monster_. Martin won't let it go if Jon lets it out, so instead they both stand there, silent. Awkwardness remains regardless of apocalyptic or relationship status.

Martin groans softly. "Would it have helped? If you'd been able to See me?"

"I was under the impression I tried rather hard to see you."

"That's not what I meant, Jon." Martin's voice is flattening out again, no more up and down. "How much did you hate the Lonely?"

Jon's fists clench in the back of Martin's coat. Technically there's no real temperature out here in the space between domains, in much the same way there's no real light and no real time. All of that belongs to the Fears, and without a focus to shape them, you get this nothingness of a sketch of what human minds called a United Kingdom. Still, for all that neither of them needs sleep or food, something about the layers helps – that is, until one of the domains inevitably perceives it as comfort. Or perhaps Martin just wants to keep Jon company. Jon certainly isn't in the mood to remove a single shred of clothing; to leave an inch of his skin exposed.

"What makes you think I stopped hating it?" he says into Martin's jumper – pure wool, criss-cross and tartan, a jovial eyesore from a lady in the village who now spends her endless days watching everything she touches die no matter what she does to stop it. No wonder she'd gotten along so well with Martin. 

Hard to tell, but he could swear the air against his purloined hoodie brushes colder. 

"Does it help?" Martin asks, barely shaping it into a real question.

What a question. What even can help them now?

"I like hating it," Jon whispers into the darkness, a fear turned comforting by Martin’s warmth against him. "It's...human."

After waking up; after losing so much; after everyone had turned away from a monster who just wanted to devour for its own sake... sitting there, alone but always Watched, Jon had sunk his teeth into the emotions that meant that maybe he was still a little bit human. Liking didn't work, but loving did; loss didn't, but hatred did. Strong enough to cut through the hunger, or at least offset it a while. Hate the Lonely or go hunting. Hate the emptiness on the top floor, the Institute stolen while he was sleeping and Martin with it.

"That doesn't sound very healthy, Jon."

Jon laughs. It's hollow and breathless, or maybe that's just him. "I'm not sure whether psychological wellness is really an option for me anymore."

For all that Jon tries so hard not to Know Martin, sometimes it happens too fast to stop, the information beamed past any of his reservations. The statement bypasses conscious thought. _Martin's 'not exactly small'. That's how he described himself – how he always has. Online dating profiles and statements. Jon had assumed it was standard self-deprecation, until he'd seen Martin on the sofa in the safehouse and suddenly understood with a palpable ache why 'small' would ever be a relevant word._ All this occurs to him at the speed of thought after he says 'psychological wellness' with such a bitter bite, and it comes with an aftertaste of regret. At least Jon had managed to say 'for me'. He can cling to that the same way he clings to Martin's shoulders.

This stopped being a hug a while ago. Now Jon's more like flotsam and jetsam.

Eventually Martin asks, "Do you think you can ever stop hating it?"

The Ceaseless Watcher does not pass judgement. That's part of the fear. Humans don't really want an unbiased jury, just a judge who will understand that they are personally special. Elias had enough self-interest to maintain an identity of his own for two centuries – an identity _and_ a goal. To think and plan and be the constant soul of Jonah Magnus. Who knew there even was a soul?

"I don't think so," Jon says, and it's true. He can't, because if he ever does, then what else is there?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin pass through the Slaughter. Jon gets a phonecall.

Jon says that they're safe, passing through the domains. Martin sort of feels like he has to believe him. It's not easy, when there are explosions going off left, right, and centre, but he has to keep hold of Jon's hand and believe in him. That’s his job.

Martin loves First World War poetry. It's what got him into poetry: that and Keats. The difference between the two is that he thought he maybe could aspire to Keats; wanting to emulate the war poets, well, that felt pretty arrogant. What kind of shared life experience could he ever draw on? He's a too-big half-Polish working-class lump with barely a handful of GCSEs, whose main skill is fading into the back of everyone's minds whether he likes it or not. 

When he'd heard they had a statement about Wilfred Owen, not long after he'd been transferred to the Archives in the first place, he'd been excited. Ridiculously excited; obviously it wasn't like hearing from Owen himself, and of course if Martin was being picky he would have preferred Sassoon, but that hadn't stopped him talking to Tim for absolute hours about it. It hadn't stopped his disappointment, either, when he'd tried to ask Jon about it and Jon had just muttered something dismissive about poetry.

Tim had found the recording, though. Technically Martin could have found it – he's a former librarian, he was supposed to be the one who knew how to organise things, it's not his fault Jon's method was as esoteric as Gertrude's in its own way – only he'd thought he should leave it alone after Jon’s reaction. Then, the next day, Tim leaned against his desk with that usual swagger, one hip for balance against the wood, and dangled the file in front of him. "Who am I to deny a fan?" he'd asked, and winked.

Tim used to wink a lot. Martin had never met anyone who'd winked before. It felt ridiculous in a Hollywood sort of way.

Hearing the gunfire around them, mines exploding outside the trenches, Martin finds he would rather think about the statement than how Tim used to be. How Wilfred Owen had been, what, a Slaughter avatar? Like Melanie? What had that made the rest of them? Why couldn't the Fears leave just one bit of his life alone?

It made sense, when Martin listened to it – at least, when he’d listened to it again, knowing about what they'd all become mired in. The first time through, he'd mostly just been confused. Confused enough that when Tim had asked him out for drinks to talk it over, he'd said yes. Confused enough, too, for Tim to start laughing over an hour in and announce that Martin was 'starting to give Jon a run for his money.’ That had made no sense, especially at a time when Jon had for some reason decided that he should loathe Martin's company, for all his lectures about emulsifiers at birthday parties.

There's a hiss of gas, and Martin might never have been in a war but he's read more than enough poetry to have a very good idea what that means. The stomach-churning terror rips through him, and who knew he could still feel that? Who knew he could still be so scared? But he thinks of a painting of a line of men, all blindfolded, and _'As under a green sea, I saw him drowning'_ and he's gripping at Jon's shoulder with his eyes squeezed shut as if all he needs is practice.

"Martin." Jon stops, and no, they should keep moving, they should keep – 

"Martin, I need you to look at me."

Opening his eyes again, Martin almost expects to see nothing but cloth. Instead, he can see Jon's eyes.

"It won't hurt you, any more than any of the rest of it."

"That's really hard to believe, Jon," Martin tells him, because it's true.

"I know," Jon says, "but that's part of it too – the belief."

"Oh, bollocks to that," Martin says, more for the satisfaction of swearing than with any real heat. "That can't be enough, seriously. It's bad enough with the bullets and the shells, but now you're shielding me from gas? What, are you going to get big enough to stand in front of my lungs? Is it scared of you, is that it? How could that possibly make sense?"

"Are you finished?"

"No," Martin says, then, "Yes, maybe."

"Alright." Jon's grip on Martin's hands tightens. Over his shoulder, Martin can already see it coming: a wave of sickly yellow cloud, insidious and oily. Those soldiers closest to it are already screaming, already writhing. Some of them are wearing gas masks, and of those only a few are left to watch on in horror as the others collapse clawing at their faces because they never worked well enough.

"Hey," Jon says, softly, and just like that he's grabbing Martin, arms tight around him, and pulling him down so that Martin's face is pressed firmly against his chest. It's frankly ridiculous, as positions go, with Martin bent practically at a 90 degree angle. He's never felt so large and lumbering in his life (apart from every other time), and yet he pushes closer and holds on with his fingers and his breath as the gas rolls over them.

Inside his head, Tim is smirking at him again. "Sorry, I never thought I'd have a date with someone who’s more interested in a guy who’s literally been dead for a hundred years."

Martin hates when his mind does this: fixates, no matter how hard he tries to think about anything else. This isn't remotely appropriate: there's war all around them, Tim's been dead for over a year of actual time, and Martin's still thinking about his ex while Jon holds him close. That last point makes him gasp a laugh, which quickly turns into choking as something thick and acidic fills up his throat like soup.

It burns. Oh, God, it _burns_ , clawing its way down as vomit fights in the opposite direction. Martin's stomach heaves, and Jon won't let go of him, muttering _something_ only Martin can't possibly make sense of it.

Something twines about his ankle. He’d almost think it was the gas, if not for the chill.

Nothing hurts in the Lonely. Martin reckons he knows the trick of it now, stepping sideways away from everything that could ever hurt you, comfortably numb, mist soothing his throat. No screaming in his ears.

Jon is holding him tighter and Martin feels it sinking in, sure as a hook or an anchor. Jon hates the Lonely. Jon might say that he loves Martin – or imply it, maybe, with the way he says it with an awkward smile like it might be a joke – Jon _could_ love him, but Martin had _tasted_ how much he hates the Lonely, the shaking emotion in Jon's voice as he'd said it. No lying there.

Jon hates the Lonely more than whatever he feels about Martin. Martin couldn't abandon Jon like that – or, more selfishly, he can't make Jon abandon him like that.

Hard to say how long it lasts. Time doesn't mean a thing in this new world, even without the fear and the domain trying to carve out a place for itself. Once, Jon moves like he might let go, and for all the Lonely still brushes against him Martin cries out and holds on tighter. Jon's meaningless words turn soothing, sibilant, and his arms stay where they are. Slowly, carefully, however, he starts to edge backwards, and Martin has no choice but to follow him – no choice other than being alone again, and he couldn't survive that. Not again. Not when the safehouse had made it so obvious how close it’s always lurking.

There's an odd popping sound, followed by heat that's more sound than temperature. He hears Jon gasp but knows better than to do the same.

Jon stops moving. He's shaking, ever so slightly. Carefully, Martin opens his eyes.

The gas is gone. So are all the people. It's just him and Jon, clinging to each other in the trench. The ground isn't wet underfoot anymore. Hard to say exactly what the consistency is, other than some vague flashbacks to primary school and badly-formed baked clay. When the rain starts falling again, it sizzles briefly in the air.

"I don't suppose that was some sort of new Archivist thing?" Martin asks. It's ridiculous, but so is the idea that anything else in this world would help them. There's Helen, maybe, but he isn't sure yet whether what she does is 'helping' or 'not killing' them.

"Somehow I doubt it," Jon says. Hard to say when he's frowning, exactly, but that's definitely the tone of voice that used to go along with it.

Martin swallows. "Can you...Know what that was?"

Jon hesitates. "I – I'd rather not."

"Okay," Martin says slowly. "That's – That doesn't sound like a good thing, Jon."

"Frankly, I wouldn't want to Know any of the things here," Jon says. "There's nothing 'good' about any of this."

"But you Know a lot of it anyway," Martin says. "I might not have listened back there but... I thought you said this was your thing, now." Guiltily he remembers how much Jon had tried to hide it, twisting deeper into his layers. He's glad Jon's said he's trying not to Know him: he doesn't want Jon to see what he looks like with all those eyes glowing. Never mind that Martin loves him anyway.

"The domains speak to me," Jon says. "I observe them. That's what the Watcher is content with, right now: an entire world of fears to feast upon. Nobody's all that picky at a buffet."

"I like Chinese food," Martin tells him pointedly.

Jon tilts his head to one side. "I – What? What are you – Oh." He huffs a laugh. "Oh, no, I wasn't talking about that. I – It was rather a lot of food, Martin, in my defence."

A trip to the local all-you-can-eat – Sasha's birthday, Martin remembers with a pang as he wonders whether it was the same date as her real birthday. The memory's from before the worms, so allegedly it should have been right...only he can't be sure. About any of it.

"Just because you barely ate anything," he says, rather than voice any of that. "That's the point of those places, Jon. Stuffing your face. Ask anyone."

"Somehow I doubt mostly people would approve of you encouraging me to gorge more," Jon says, and just like that any attempt at lightening the mood is gone. The rain is cold again, incisive. It doesn't envelop Martin the way the fog does. Everything around here, apparently, is at war.

Martin sighs. "Should we carry on, then?"

"The only way forward," Jon says. "Unless you'd rather stay in the trenches."

With a shudder, Martin says, "God, no. No, these places were bad enough when I just read about them."

"Most things are."

Letting go is impossible. In the end, the best they manage is an awkward shuffle back to holding hands. Martin thinks that maybe they should have stayed in line, his hand on Jon's shoulder to lead him forwards.

He wishes Jon had someone he could hold onto.

\---

Hard to say how it happens. Hard to say how he feels about it.

Jon's hardly a stranger to impulsiveness. It's almost gotten him killed on a great many occasions in the last couple of years, and honestly it had hardly left him unscathed before the Institute. As much as he would greatly love to dismiss acting purely on emotion as absurd and beneath him, the fact is that he's as prone to not thinking as anyone else. Take a look at what he's done to the world. Truly, it’s amazing what curiosity _does_ kill.

Whenever his...'powers' have surged up like this, it's felt good. Jon isn't naive, and he's also a smoker, so he fully understands the mechanics of addiction. It makes sense, as a way of shaping the more reluctant avatars. He wasn't expecting that sense of righteousness, though. Ripping the statement out of Breekon had felt good and enthralling; calling down the Watcher on the thing wearing Sasha's identity like an ill-cared-for raggedy coat... for a moment, Jon thought he understood being God.

He's not. He's a vassal. He's a plaything. He's a monster who's barely wearing the skin of Jonathan Sims anymore. That's why his mouth moves so easily; why the words are ready in his head for the moment he wants to use them.

'Wretched thing'. Perhaps that does sound like him. It's hard to say, really. He wouldn't have thought he'd be the kind of person to stalk the streets to eat people's fear either, yet Annabelle made it extremely clear that she hadn't done anything to him.

Much like how the thing that's now a smoking hole and had previously been the devourer of Sasha hadn't done anything to him either. Couldn't do anything. Petty revenge, really. A realisation that he has power followed by instant gratification. She – _it_ – had apologised at the end, absolutely terrified of him. She hadn't meant it, of course. None of them will ever be truly sorry. That's something Jon believes he would have realised eventually, without Helen rubbing his face in it.

Helen. She'll love this, he doesn't need supernatural assistance to know that. She always loves his utter incapability of resisting the Eye, crowing over his inadequacies. At least Annabelle had proved he was wrong and left it at that.

Next to him, Martin is positively giddy with fantasies of wreaking vengeance. Jon feels very tired, so he lets it continue. Back when Jon could convince himself he didn’t care about the statements, he would have taken out his frustration and despair by tearing into Martin, and it's the shame of both knowing and Knowing that which stops him. Statement of Jonathan Sims, he hypothesises, regarding the fact that he is an irredeemable arse. No, he would still rather Martin didn't talk about it, but fine. Let someone be happy that Jon has discovered new ways for the Eye to control him.

As if on cue, he hears it. First he Knows it, then he hears it; shockingly, in the split-second between the two he hasn't decided what he will do about it. 

"Jon?" 

Jon shakes his head. "Not now."

"No, not the – Jon, did you hear something?"

"What makes you think that I did?" It's the damned eyes, lighting him up, it must be. He pulls his hood forwards, scratching irritably against the bulges he forces closed.

Martin's mouth flattens out. "Well, first off, that's a painfully blatant deflection if I ever heard one. I'm a little offended, actually."

"Only a little?" Jon bites out, wincing as soon as it leaves him. "That is – no." He sighs, covering his face with his hands, not out of the usual shame this time. "I'm sorry, Martin."

"It's okay," Martin says, which all but guarantees that it is decidedly not 'okay'. Jon would appreciate the sentiment if he didn't already know that Martin would say that to almost anyone. No superpowers required for that one. "Just – are you alright?"

"I'm a terrifying eye monster," Jon says, successfully muffling his voice for once. "What problem could I possibly have with that?"

"Well, okay, yeah," Martin says, background noise to the thoughts he's actually having, "but...don't you feel just a little bit good? About what just happened?"

Very slowly, Jon drags his hands down. Technically he doesn't need to: the Eye is everywhere in this world, sees everything, and it insists on feeding all of that back to Jon. It's the gesture that counts, though. "Should I?"

"It killed Sasha!" Martin exclaims, making Jon flinch a little. "I know revenge isn't great, obviously, but it tried to kill you; it chased me and Tim into those tunnels for God only knows how long... You know all the domains, Jon, right? You must have known that one was hers – its – so that was the plan, right?"

"You're assuming I knew I could do that to it," Jon says. He refuses to start shaking.

"Oh, come on, Jon," Martin scoffs. "Because I never asked you the question? You didn't think of asking yourself that?"

Jon's eyes narrow – the main two, along with the rest covering his face. "Do you seriously think I spend my time planning murder sprees?" Would it be a spree killing, if he could keep on doing it? How long would it take to wander this new world and slaughter them all? But he'd just end up handing the governing power to the Slaughter, no doubt. That troublesome balance at work again. Who is Jon to think that he can control it? No, all he can do is walk and Know all the ways that things cannot be changed for the better.

"I don't know what you spend your time thinking about, Jon," Martin says. "You don't tell me."

Unfair. Unfair and unwarranted and, unfortunately, undeniable. He'd hoped Martin wouldn't ask, and strictly speaking he still hasn't. That doesn't make it any easier to watch the annoyance twisting Martin's face. Not so long ago, Jon would have settled for any emotion sufficient to cut through the fog. He'd tried provoking Martin for a few days in the safehouse, rendering it something of a misnomer, until Martin had screamed at him to stop and charged out. Now, Jon knows that was because of his mother. Funny how having all the answers doesn't help with the questions.

"I think about all the ways I can't do anything," Jon tells him. "I think about all the mistakes and choices I made that resulted in us getting here. I think about how _literally anyone_ could have done better than me."

"At what?" Martin asks. "Is – Is this about Sasha? The real Sasha," he adds, "the one on the tapes?"

"She was Gertrude's choice," Jon says with a shrug. "Or Tim, for that matter. It would have worked out better for him, probably."

Martin's voice turns sharp. "That's not fair."

"Why?" The weariness of it all weighs down on him. The entirety of the Eye's knowledge is quite the burden. No wonder part of him just wants to get to the Panopticon, where his sole obligation would be to sit and watch everything himself. "You don't think he could have done it?"

"It isn't fair to bring either of them into it," Martin says. "And you – you know that. You _know_ it, so why bring it up?"

"You're the one who asked what I'm thinking," Jon says. "I'm sorry if the answers aren't what you want to hear."

Martin doesn't have a comeback – either that or he's swallowing it down. Sometimes Jon wonders how often Martin must have done that before, for it to be second nature for him. Only an idle wondering, obviously – he doesn’t go looking for answers this time.

Finally Martin says,"I need a moment," short and to the point.

"You can have as many as you like," Jon tells him. "You've given me plenty."

Martin throws up his hands as he stalks away – not very far, enough to make a point. He's angry, of course he is. Jon would be too. So he turns and gives Martin some extra space, to make sure.

The ringing never quite stopped. A phonebox, bright red and utterly incongruous with the landscape, stands hidden just behind an outcropping Martin never tried to look towards and Jon never stepped near. Jon looks at it, hands in his pockets, as the ringing builds in his head.

He takes a step forward. The ringing stops; restarts at a new tone, a new speed. When he steps back again, it turns shrill, angry. Coaxing again as he moves closer; growling whenever he pauses. 

In the end, it's too easy to throw open the door and catch up the receiver. He dislikes the feeling of strings, no matter how imaginary they might be.

"Annabelle."

" _Jon_ ," the voice says, delight oozing out. He's never heard it directly from her voice box until now. She’s always spoken to him through her victims, and that includes himself. Listening back to that one tape in the hopes that somehow he missed something – some clue that meant she was puppetting him. Hearing his own voice stretch and narrow to fit hers, and yet never as deep or corrosive as what Elias did to him. "I was beginning to think you'd given up on me."

"I'm not in the mood." There's a single light in the phone box, although if he looked up he wouldn't find a source. It's not there to help him dial or highlight any adverts or phone numbers promising a good time as if it still exists in this world. Outside it is dark enough that, no matter whether he looks at the walls or the shining telephone, he sees himself. A mound of cloth, eyes staring out always. 

"You so rarely are in a mood for anything, Jon," Annabelle says, unnervingly close to Helen. "At least Martin's moments have a point to them. You just go dull."

"Leave him out of this," Jon says, for all the good it'll do. If Annabelle wants to involve Martin, she will.

"There. Again. Put a little energy into it, please. You've experienced true love and murderous rage, don't you want to channel them a bit harder?"

"What do you _want_?" Jon asks. 

"Shame Martin isn't here. I wanted to talk to him, you know. Both of you, really. Too bad you sent him away."

"I didn't send him away." Jon can't help it when he's prickly – when he's scared and tired and the words line up so precisely to chase people away. He could say anything and Martin would still have left, and frankly Jon had wanted to think without worrying for just a second. "Not everyone thinks like you, Annabelle."

She chuckles. "You know, you really should have said 'no one'. Or 'very few'. I'm afraid that 'not everyone' would assume that as a default."

"I suppose all this nonsense is supposed to lead somewhere?" Jon asks. "Or are you just trying to annoy me into distraction? Is the idea to have me asking questions?"

"Not if these are the sorts of questions you're considering," Annabelle says. "I wanted to chat, that's all, Jon. Chat and offer help. Don't you need someone to talk to?"

"I have Martin."

"Do you now," she all but purrs. "And I was rather thinking of someone with more...shared life experience."

"I'm not interested," Jon says, "in what you or Helen or anyone else has to tell me about the correct protocol for being a monster."

"Oh, I know that," Annabelle says. "I thought you'd like an alternative route pointed out to you, though."

Jon laughs, not out of any humour. "Really, this is beneath you."

"Have a look to your right," Annabelle tells him. "Anytime you want. Look to your right."

Jon hangs up the phone precisely so that she can't do it first.

His left hand itches. He shouldn't have left Martin alone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin compare notes and the path deviates.

"I'm not interested," Martin says, and throws the phone away.

Yeah, he knows Jon doesn't actually _need_ him in any sort of real defensive way. He can't think what Annabelle's hoping to gain from this. At least, he assumes that was Annabelle: it would probably make sense for the Web to have all sorts of female voices on hand. Play on people's assumptions, that sort of thing.

Shit. He's not supposed to give the Web ideas.

Jon's still sitting where Martin left him, staring at the ground with tape recorder in hand. Sometimes Martin wonders what's inside those things. Obviously it's not batteries. Maybe eyes? But then they wouldn't need Jon to speak into them, and that's the point of them, isn't it? When they used to manifest while he was doing admin for Peter, he'd smile and say hello exactly because he couldn't say it to Jon. 

"Why is Annabelle Cane calling me?" Martin asks by way of striking up a conversation.

He's expecting some twitching, the usual signs of the paranoia that will probably always lurk under Jon's skin. What he does not expect is for Jon's whole spine to go ramrod straight. He definitely didn't imagine Jon would start stuttering, the way he does when he's been caught out. It doesn't mean he's lying, exactly. He’s hiding something, though.

After a few false starts, Jon eventually manages, "Why did she say she was calling you?"

Martin scoffs. "Like that matters with her. Can't you Know?"

"I told you," Jon says, slight irritation in his voice yet hardly as much as Martin would have predicted for Jon having to repeat himself, "Knowing the powers hurts, and the Web's always been difficult, if not impossible."

"Convenient."

"For the Web, maybe." Jon's hand flexes around the tape recorder. Martin misses seeing his skin; wouldn't mind the eyes along the knuckles at all. He hates Jon hidden away like this. "I suppose all the Powers have their weaknesses. Their traps. Like what I did to – " Jon breaks off. 

Martin raises his eyebrows. "What you did to...?" Does he mean the thing that wasn't Sasha? The Stranger dislikes being Known, that only makes sense. The same goes for most of the Fears though.

Exhaling, Jon says, "Peter."

Oh. Right, that... that makes sense.

Carefully, Martin steps closer. When Jon seems determined to curl in on himself, Martin sits down on the ground besides him, propped against the same wall of stone. Jon tenses impossibly further, ridiculously on edge. Martin holds out an arm and waits for enough of it to pass for Jon to slowly slump into him. It reminds Martin of the stray animals he'd try to coax closer, the way occasionally they'd relax enough for him to touch them. Cats always liked him, so it's been with some amusement that he's found that Jon really takes after them. 

Of course they talked about Peter. They sort of had to, between escaping the Lonely and the way Jon had been practically vibrating with the Knowledge he'd sucked out of him. At the time, though, Martin hadn't had that one extra detail burrowing away in his head: Jon hates the Lonely. _Hates_.

"Hey," Martin says as Jon starts to curl into him, "it's okay."

"What is?" Jon says into his shoulder.

It's awkward, shrugging with just one side. Still, it’s worth it, to leave Jon comfortable and safe. "Whatever's bothering you. It's fine." His hand itches to pull back Jon's hood – just to see him, just to make Jon feel a little less trapped. He can't do it to him. "Is it Annabelle? Because she was just trying to say how you don't need me, which I already know is true."

"I do need you," Jon insists softly.

"Yeah, maybe," Martin says, "but to survive out here? Not so much. I'm the one who needs you." 

Guiltily, he remembers the safehouse after it all went wrong. Walking back through the early apocalypse, and then standing in the garden watching the swirling mass on the horizon. Learning that rain could feel like tears and lava. Always thinking something besides the Watcher was out there. Keeping the fog close to feel alone when nobody ever could be.

He needs Jon. He's not an avatar, he's human. Bad world for humans, but the alternative costs too much.

He's clinging to Jon, he realises. Ridiculous. A boy who can never quite grow up; who can't stand on his own. So your mother never loved you; so Peter offered you something and you ripped it out of his hands. So you let Tim devolve into anger and revenge and let Sasha vanish and Melanie blind herself and Jon – 

"She called me too."

Martin's breathing heavier. At some point he closed his eyes, since now he blinks them open in confusion. He has no idea, for too long, what Jon is talking about.

"Since we should probably be honest with each other," Jon says, and Martin recognising the tone as Jon theorising doesn't stop it stinging, "in case that's part of her plan: Annabelle called me, after – after the whole..." He waves his hand vaguely in the air.

"Jon, if you're trying to sign 'spooky shit', you're going to have to be more specific."

"With the Stranger," Jon snaps. 

"Oh." Honestly? That memory still excites Martin, just a little. Nice to have something positive alongside Jon's hatred to keep him focused. The idea that it's possible to hurt the monsters back. "She wanted you to stop?"

"No, she – she didn't really talk about that. Not really. She didn't seem for it or against it."

Obviously Martin's noticed that Jon isn't as excited about the smiting as him. Maybe if Helen hadn't got in on it, he might have been able to convince him. Now something else is bothering him. "So what did she want?"

"Honestly? It sounded like she just wanted to talk."

"...Just talk?"

Jon huffs a laugh against Martin's side. "Yes, I realise there's no 'just' with the Web. She did try to get us to change our path, but besides that? It seemed like fairly standard stuff. Nothing to write home about."

Martin does not laugh. "She wants to change the route?"

"I'm not going to, Martin, don't worry."

"No, but – " Martin pulls back a little, despite Jon's small sound of displeasure. "Why would she want us to go a different way?"

"Martin, I told you. I know the way. I know how to get to Elias. I don't need her to tell me how to get there."

"Is that what she asked?" Martin demands. "She wanted you to go somewhere else, or go a different way ‘round?"

"Does it matter?" Jon asks. "I'm hardly going to start taking advice from Annabelle Cane of all people. It's unsubtle, especially by her standards, which makes it all the more vital not to go taking directions from spiders."

Martin frowns. "But why be unsubtle? Why go to all the trouble of – of _manifesting phones_ in domains? What, does she want to make sure we don't forget about her? Is she lonely in the apocalypse? Does she want to – to _hang out_?"

Jon catches Martin's arm, flailing about as it is in the air. "I doubt that," he says, and Martin dislikes the placating sound to it. "I have no idea what she wants, Martin. Nobody ever knows what the Web wants until it's already happened. That's how it works. Maybe she really did want to talk to me, and threw that in at the end just to save face. The rules are all a little...skewed, now."

Martin wants to tell Jon that this is how it keeps happening. Jon rationalises everything and then people keep stabbing him in the back. Well, 'people' – Elias, more like. Martin did this to Jon himself, when the Lonely was starting to eat deeper into him. There’s something about Jon, as well: Martin couldn't say what exactly, but just looking at him you can tell what you have to say or do to make him do or say what you want. It's a hideous thought and a cold one, and he can't help shivering.

"Martin?"

"Where did she tell you to go?" Martin asks, looking away.

Jon forces a laugh. "’Right.’"

"Excuse me?"

"Sorry, she said to 'look to your right'," Jon says, his voice dropping into a familiar ominous note. "I'm sure you can tell why I don't consider that particularly helpful advice."

"Was it 'go right' or 'look to your right'?"

"Martin, what does it matter? The only reason I'd do it is if we happen to end up going right anyway, leaving it all suitably ambiguous as to whether any of our choices are actually ours. That's all we can do." The sheer hopelessness of it surprises Martin, and he can't help the slight noise he makes, almost like a sad dog (because that's all he is, isn't he?). Jon tips his head back, vulnerable, and for a moment the nothing-light in the world shifts just enough that Martin can see his face properly for the first time in too long. He's not sure how: maybe the hood got pulled back during the hug, or maybe Jon's accidentally found exactly the right angle that it doesn't matter. Still, he inhales at the sight, at Jon's face with his mouth pulling down to the side in misery and all of his eyes focused on Martin as if he's the only thing worth looking at.

To his surprise, Martin feels his stomach twist. He's never had a problem with this before – 'I see you' had saved him, after all – and yet there's something about the emotion, or the intensity, or just the air between them. He's holding onto Jon and his hands shake, just a little.

Keeping his voice steady, the way he's taught himself, he says, "Jon, that's a really bleak way of seeing things."

"As opposed to all the sunshine in the world at present?" Jon queries. Martin could choke at the angle of those eyebrows, highlighted on all sides by the eyes as they arch teasingly.

"You know what I mean." Martin's hands drift up, cupping Jon's face. He fights the urge to tip it just enough to change the light. "Jon, I know hopeless. I've been hopeless, remember? I know what it's like to think my choices don't matter." The chill at his back could be imagined, for all that he suspects it isn't. 

Once, he'd sat curled up at a desk in the local library, pretending not to know the time so they wouldn't kick him out until the last minute, staring at his notebook of meaningless trite formulaic poetry, and he'd thought, _What if I lied?_ And just like that, his life had unfolded – still creased, sure, but room to breathe. It also directly led him to getting stranded in the apocalypse, but if you believe what Jon believes that could have happened anyway. Martin was just how Jonah chose to get Jon into the Lonely. That part's replaceable.

Jon asks, "What are you thinking?"

Martin smiles. "I'm allowed some secrets, aren't I?" And he doesn't miss the way Jon's mouth twists, just for a moment, the annoyance temporarily overwhelming the misery. It makes his heart skip a beat. When Jon closes his eyes – his main eyes, his old eyes – Martin risks a quick inhale.

Quickly, before the gap can open up and it can only get more obvious what Jon was thinking, Martin says, "The thing is, sometimes you can sort of...force choices? Decide that there are choices. I mean," he groans, "shit, I don't know, sort of...take control? I guess?"

"Is this supposed to be some sort of cat poster of encouragement?" Jon asks drily, in the same way he talks about 'tarot cards' or 'astrology'. "Martin, it's the apocalypse, not a meeting about job performance." He starts to say something else before he flattens his mouth into a line, which is good because then Martin can stay focused rather than needing to say something acerbic in response.

"What I'm saying, Jon, is I don't see what the benefit is of saying 'well, I can't make any choices' and just sitting down in the middle of the road and waiting for a car to hit you."

"That..." Jon looks at him, enough that Martin swears he can feel something skittering across his brain. "That was very specific."

"It's hyperbole," Martin says, not quite lying.

Jon hums in clear disbelief. "Regardless," he says slowly, "I'm not 'just sitting down'. I'm finding us a route to Elias. I'm sorry it's taking so long, but it's hardly a standard journey and I did say – "

"I know what you said," Martin interrupts. As he tries to follow Jon's thoughts, he's starting to feel a little sick. Something's nudging at him that he really doesn't want to consider. "And it's – it's good, it really is, because we can find Elias – _Jonah_ – and now you can kill him and – " Oh, it's there again, getting bigger, making him falter " – and then that can fix it, that's good, you can get us there and – "

Oh, fuck.

"Having a little trouble there?"

'A little trouble' is an understatement. Martin almost wishes he could throw up on cue, so he could stop feeling like he should.

"Martin?" Jon’s concerned now. Martin can't look at him, fixating on the ground. "Martin, what is it?" The ground. There are people underground, he knows that. People trapped in the Buried. Same way there must be people falling in the sky because of the Vast, or getting devoured or twisted around in endless mazes or –

"I wanted to help," Martin tells himself, but it comes out cracked.

Jon grips his arms. "Martin. Martin, look at me. I don't know what's wrong and I don't know how to help, so you need to talk to me." His words are speeding up. Worried. About him. "Did Annabelle say something else? Have you remembered something?"

Oh, only that Martin shouldn't trust himself. "I'm doing the same thing, aren't I?"

"What?" Jon sounds so confused. Of course he does: wasn't Martin just thinking about how easy it is to trick him, to get him to go the way you want him to? Christ, if it weren't for Peter, Martin could have just as easily wandered up to the Web and volunteered. Maybe that was why he'd been so firm about Annabelle.

Despite Jon holding on to his wrists, Martin covers his face with his hands. He's always been stronger than Jon, physically. "You never actually wanted to do this," he says. "I was the one who said we should find Elias. You were just doing it for me."

"I – "Jon's fingers tense. "Martin, what did she say to you?"

"Oh, she barely said anything," Martin says. "It's me. I wanted you to do something so I just said what I wanted to do because it seemed like the right thing and I wanted to help, and you agreed but that was all it was, wasn't it? You were just going along with what I said."

Jon hesitates. "Does that make it a bad thing?"

Martin wrenches his hands down to stare at him, forcing Jon to jerk backwards. "Of course that's a bad thing!" he says – shouts, really. "Jon, I think I know a thing or two about doing things just because you think it'll make people happy! It doesn't work out that way!"

"So I shouldn't want you to be happy?" Jon demands. "Martin, what exactly do you want then? I thought you wanted to stop this?"

"Can we, though?" Martin asks. "Can we stop this or were you just humouring me?"

"I wasn't _humouring_ you," Jon says, pausing a second too long before he carries on. "I didn't know what else to do. We can kill Elias, yes, if you want."

"I don't just want you to do what I want! I mean, yes, obviously I want him dead, he killed the world and it seems like the least we could do, but not if you're just going along with it."

"You just said it's the 'least we could do'," Jon points out. "Elias didn't kill the world; I did. I have rather a lot to make up for, so this seems as good a place to start as any."

Right. The guilt. Jon's neverending fathomless guilt for getting manipulated into this. "That's what I'm saying, though. That, you didn't have a choice in. You tried – we ended up in Scotland trying to get away from it."

"Is that what we were doing?" Jon asks, seemingly more curious than anything.

"Jon, will you just listen to me?"

"I will once I understand what point you're even trying to make." Jon sighs, reaching up in what Martin realises is the same frustrated gesture he always used to do when the Archives resisted his attempts to make sense of it all, to push up his glasses and shove back his hair. Only he doesn't need glasses anymore, and when he reaches his hairline he accidentally shoves back the hood instead. He freezes as it falls back, releasing waves of white and grey-streaked black Martin hasn't seen since...

He goes to yank the hood back up. Martin's a little surprised to find himself catching Jon's hand in his own, holding on tightly.

Jon glances towards Martin's grip, at the same time as he looks at Martin, and over Martin's shoulder, and down at Martin's other hand. It's the first time Martin's seen the eyes move independently like that, the effect surprisingly similar to the Spiral's corridors. Somehow, it feels very important that the two oldest eyes are looking at him. It shouldn't make any difference: they're all Jon's eyes. Nevertheless, Martin exhales.

"Jon," Martin says, with a teetering sense that somehow these are the words all this hinges on. "You know I want to kill Elias. I still do, and when I get the chance I'll do it myself if I can, because I want to bring the world back and people are suffering and dying." Jon opens his mouth to speak and Martin tightens his grip. A couple of extra eyes shift to look at his fingers trembling. "That's what I want. But I also want you to be happy, and I want you to feel in control. You can't just keep bouncing between what people tell you to do and what they make you do. Yeah, there are always consequences, but when did you last actually choose something?"

Jon's voice is so very quiet. It's the exact opposite of Martin's old derisive dismissive boss. "Martin, I can't trust my own choices. I can't trust that they're mine."

"Jonah already got what he wants," Martin reminds him. Then a thought occurs. "Unless – does Jonah want you to go to him? At the Panopticon?"

Tilting his head, Jon frowns, a couple of the eyes shifting as the skin crinkles. "Are you asking?"

Taking a deep breath, Martin says, "Yes." Then, firmer, "Does Jonah want us to go to the Panopticon?"

Some of the eyes dilate; some of the pupils narrow to barely a pinprick; others oscillate, in and out. No doubt the same thing is happening under all of Jon's clothes as well. Fingertips of green light start to escape from the collar of the hoodie and past the end of his sleeves. Martin holds his breath and makes himself watch.

In a couple of eyes, the colour changes. Something swirls, a more golden-green, and Martin has to force himself to stay still and wait because he knows that shade.

"He's waiting," Jon says, the Archivist's voice ringing. "He's been waiting since the world ended. He’s won and he's immortal but he wants me there, to make it complete. His Archive."

Martin wants to hug Jon close. Instead, he holds on tighter. "You're not his."

"The Archive is his; he created it," the Archivist reminds him. "That is how he sees things. Beholding shapes the world."

Martin blinks. He can’t argue back when that seems like an awfully odd way of phrasing it. "Because it's the Beholding's domain? All of it?"

More of Jon's eyes are starting to slide to focus over Martin's shoulder. Inevitably he looks around, but there's nothing but more apocalypse. At least they're losing that golden tinge again. Jon looks a bit more like himself.

Jon exhales. "I'm sorry that wasn't what you wanted to hear."

"It's not about what I want to hear," Martin mutters, more on principle than anything else. He glances back again, wondering what had caught the Beholding's attention. "Okay, so Jonah wants you there. How... How do you feel about that?"

Jon hums, and he reaches out to plunge his hands into the pockets of Martin's coat, pulling him in tighter. He rests his forehead against Martin's chest. Martin wishes he could feel the heat of him through the layers. "It honestly doesn't matter," he says, " _but_ ," he adds, apparently feeling Martin's chest expand with the argument, "I'm not happy about it. I might even say I...dislike it."

"No need to go nuts," Martin says, looping his arms around Jon's back. "We don't want you to strain anything."

"Just wait. One day I'm going to embark on an elaborate emotional speech and the world will end. Again."

It's not all that funny, yet they both laugh without any real sound.

"Jon."

"Martin."

"Say I wasn't here. Where would you want to go?"

Wriggling, Jon says, "If you weren't here, I wouldn't be either."

"It's just a question," Martin says. "This isn't a trick." Not in the traditional sense, anyway. Possibly it is the kind of trick Martin's used to: the one where he tests whether someone actually cares about him. Like when he'd told Tim it didn't matter if he didn't want to talk about his brother; like he'd learnt from his mum, over and over.

For once, Jon doesn't pull back or argue or dispute some petty piece of semantics. In fact, he goes very still in Martin's arms, which is generally a sure sign that he's trying to actually think seriously about something. Martin's not exactly certain why. Maybe it helps focus his mind, or maybe the performativity of it is what makes a difference in Jon's head. No telling what's happening in there, sometimes, at least in the logical sense.

Staring out over Jon's head at the apocalypse – at the mud, in this case, mud full of worms and people who might as well be worms, and in the distance something huge, and in another distance spiralling tornadoes – Martin reminds himself that he didn't cause the end of the world either. Not really. He is, however, shaping what happens next. And dammit, he just wanted to do the right thing.

"I think," Jon mumbles against Martin's coat, and Martin quickly pulls him back to look him in the face (since 'in the eye' gets rather complicated). Jon nods. "I think...I want to know."

Martin smiles, unable to stop himself teasing, "Well, there's nothing new there."

Jon withdraws a hand to flick him lightly in the sleeve. "I think I want to know what Annabelle is talking about." He makes a face, eyes scrunching together. "That's the point, though, isn't it?"

"Well, it's something you actually want to do," Martin says, trying to sound optimistic. "That's...more than you've managed for a while? Since all the, well," he waves his hand at the air around them, "you know."

"Yes, I do." Jon smiles at him. "I love you."

Martin frowns. "Okay, I love you too," he says, smiling in confusion, "but not sure what that's got to do with this?"

"Why does it have to be relevant?" Jon takes Martin's hand; looks at it with all of his eyes. "I do mean it. I wouldn't be here without you."

Martin wants to say something comforting, or reassuring, or inspiring. He's a poet, or at least he kept saying he was one. More than that, he can tell this is one of those moments when you have to say the right words, or any words at all. Except all he can think is how, despite the way Jon is talking about what he _wants_ , he's still looking at Martin like _that_ and all Martin would have to do is say what _he_ wants, and Jon would do that instead. 

Jonah wants the Archive for his vision of the world, and suddenly the thought is there in Martin's head that it isn't about whether Jon needs him, it's about how Martin needs Jon. That needle in his head, sliding deep: that Martin is just another person in a very long line. Nothing special about him apart from how he's hurting Jon.

The Lonely – because there's a name for it – tugs at his stomach.

Jon is talking. "Martin?" He’s peering in closer at him. Martin looks away. "Martin, what is it?"

"Nothing," Martin says, and he smiles. Technically he's forcing it, only Martin is very good at making the forced look genuine. Also, he's looking at Jon and, selfish thing that he is, that makes the smile very real. "Just like seeing you making decisions for yourself, that's all."

Jon huffs, entirely for show, Martin can tell. "There's no need to be so rude about it."

"Right, I forgot. That's your thing." Jon's chuckling, low in his throat, and that pushes the Lonely away a little. "And speaking of your thing: which way?"

Jon shrugs. "She said to look to my right," he says, and it's striking how much lighter his voice sounds all of a sudden. How much was Martin's revenge quest dragging him down?

"Okay, but what does that actually mean?" Martin asks. "It can't be as easy as just turning right."

"Obviously," Jon says, without any bite. He glances over Martin's shoulder one more time. "Hang on."

Turning around deliberately, he positions himself where he always is, to Martin's right. No idea how that ended up being so standard for them, but the whole time, Martin realises, they've always stood this way around. Carefully, Jon takes Martin's right hand in his left. "Just. Bear with me on this."

He starts walking.

Nothing all that major about that: they've been walking for a very long time, more time than they could ever comprehend precisely because time means absolutely nothing anymore. It's different, though. Before, for all that Jon had held on to him, he'd always had his head down, like he was never entirely there. Ever since leaving the safehouse – ever since it caught fire behind them – he's just been putting one foot in front of the other. Martin knows because he's done that so many times himself: that inevitable treadmill step, the world winding by at the edges.

Now, though, Jon doesn't walk with the same certainty. He stops and starts, head twitching to the side, as if he might have caught sight of something. Occasionally he yanks at Martin, a 'did you see' on his lips before it dies. More than anything, it reminds Martin of their ambling walks in the Highlands, with no destination specifically. Yet even that isn't right, because there is a purpose to this. There's something Jon's looking for.

It's obvious the moment Jon sees it. Abruptly, he comes to a halt, eyes all widening. The landscape around them is dull, oddly washed out. Martin thinks there might be buildings in the distance, arranged into a street, but he also doesn't think they're what's caught Jon's attention. No reason they'd make his skin go such a washed-out grey. No reason they'd make his hand suddenly clench so tightly around Martin's.

"No," Jon whispers, his voice strained. He sounds – Martin doesn't want to use the word, only he's heard it enough in Jon's voice that it's unmistakable – he sounds horrified. "No, that's – that can't – I'd have _known_ ," he moans, his free hand coming up to cover his mouth like he might throw up. 

"What is it?" Martin asks, reaching out to him. "Jon, what's wrong?"

Jon shakes his head, pulling away. "No, he can't be here," Jon is saying, still staring off as if Martin isn't there, for all that he's still holding on. "Why was she – how did _she_ know about him?"

"Jon, you're not making sense," Martin says, although he realises of course that it isn't that Jon isn't making sense, it's that Martin's missing the information, standing outside the revelation. "Talk to me."

Jon doesn't talk to him. Instead, just like that, he's off again: not running, _striding_ , so that Martin gets yanked along behind him. Martin's taller but Jon's ridiculous when he gets these spurts, all that manic energy diverted into his legs. 

"Come on, Martin!"

When Martin resorts to a quick jog just to draw level, Jon is staring straight ahead, and oh God, Martin knows that expression. It's different with all the eyes, except that's the only difference. That glint, that slightly open mouth, that focus: that's Jon when he's found a mystery. That's Jon how he used to be in the Archives, when he thought he could solve something. Funny that the horror isn't so clear anymore. Maybe it isn't what he thought.

"Jon?" Martin says – or gasps, unfit as ever. 

"He's just over there," Jon says, and if anything he speeds up.

They're cutting straight through the street. It's a domain, it has to be – everywhere is now, everywhere that looks like an actual place. For the first time, Jon doesn't dawdle, and he doesn't so much as reach for his tape recorder. There's an odd scratching against Martin's mind, almost like the domain just wants someone to observe it. It's out of luck with Martin, though, and it has to realise that.

Besides, he can barely see the houses. The closer they appear, the harder they are to see clearly. Martin squints and they blur further, like he's crying.

"Just through here," Jon is saying, and they jerk sharply to the right. Jon's free hand is already reaching out long before they come to the door to a house that Martin has never seen and yet feels awfully familiar. Jon pushes and the door opens as easily as that, and he strides inside.

Hard to say exactly what happens: the door closes behind them, without a creak or a slam; Martin looks back, hesitates, wonders what's so familiar; he stumbles; his hand is suddenly empty.

Martin trips and falls, and when he looks up from the void of the carpet, Jon has vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone, Jon is caught in a statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of sexual coercion and child abuse within the statement

Until the door slams shut behind him, Jon doesn't realise he's alone. 

The knowledge had been there at the front of his mind, so bright and so blinding, and of course he'd had to follow it, of course he couldn't ignore it – and then the door had slammed shut, as sure as a punch to the face and a voice screaming _what have you done_.

He spins on the spot, already knowing what he'll see: nothing and no one. The rather plain greyish-white door he ran through is now metal, a fire escape with the bar on the other side. When he reaches out towards it, the human in him wants to flinch back from the heat radiating from it. The Archivist presses his hand against the crack of the doorjamb anyway, to feel the chill escaping from the other side.

"Martin!" he yells. He'd never understood why people on TV or in films kept on shouting when they so clearly couldn't be heard. Now, he thinks with a twist in his gut, he does because he actually has someone to lose. "Martin, can you hear me?"

Nothing. Of course there's nothing.

Abruptly he looks to his side – his right, naturally – as if he can somehow catch one of Annabelle's phones off guard. Instead of offering a solution, the alleyway stretches away from him, discarded cigarette ends and ripped leaflets twitching in the wind. 

A sharp pain in his palm. He pulls it back to see that the underside of his glove has been seared away, watering eyes blinking up at him. His hood is still pulled back, apparently, and the eyes on his hand observe that the eyes on his face look panicked, like a wild animal. It’s...disgusting. Eyes watching eyes in an endless loop of monstrousness. He does all he can think to do in that moment: he reaches up to cover it again. Not that it makes any difference, without Martin to startle, only he feels as if he should. Also, it helps a little with distinguishing between the two visual inputs. He can feel his brain shifting to accommodate, like a fly’s compound television array, and this shows willing to stop the change. To stay thinking human, even if he doesn’t look it.

Another thing they do in films is punch a wall that's never done anything. Jon considers it, raising his arm, ready to pull on all that righteous fury that consumed the the thing that wasn’t Sasha. The power within him stirs, hungry, moving to the forefront in eager anticipation of new knowledge - and then falls back, disappointed. It tells him what he already knows, what he doesn’t need to Know: for all that he can feel his useless heart fluttering in his chest, there is nothing he can do. There is a route which will take several domains to cross; there is nobody to consume to make the way open up. The apocalypse has its rules.

He sags, limp as a marionette without a handler. Only at the last moment does he stop short of full decline, keeping his forehead away from the seething metal’s heat. All-powerful, perhaps, so long as he adheres to this world. Watcher forbid he should be able to regain what he’s thrown away.

"Martin," he says, quieter this time. He tries to reach out, to Know, just to grasp for comfort that he doesn’t deserve, but all he can feel is the cold still escaping around the edges of the door, frosted mist melting in a second to drip like blood.. There's no _Martin_ in his head. It feels... It feels like when he's tried to find Georgie and Melanie. That kind of emptiness, an absence of Knowing beyond the fact that they're not dead. 

In sheer desperation he reaches out with everything he's learnt, the new way his thoughts align and coalesce, and tries for once to actually _do_ something. Rather than look, he tries to _pull_ , to make a difference and not just accept it. His hands flex in the air, fingers curling in, a taste in his mouth that's sharp and cold...but that's it. Of course nothing else happens. Jon lacks the ability to save anyone.

Another failure. Worse than the rest, perhaps, because he’d promised he would look after him. No, that’s not fair: he’s failed all of his assistants, and that is an absolute. "I'm so sorry," he whispers, with the echo of utter inadequacy. 

This time, the wind brings a low mocking chuckle winding towards him. It's warm, as unpleasant as the liquid sewage air of a London heatwave. It envelops him, a smothering hug, and in his pathetic misery Jon sways into it and takes too long to realise that he’s _hot_. Temperature’s been nothing but an objective fact since he woke up, yet suddenly he’s sweating under his layers. Not that they’re the reason he’s too hot. As it slicks across his skin, it slinks into his mind: the knowledge of the domain.

"I'm not leaving," Jon says. It doesn’t matter that staying in one spot won't help Martin escape, or stop this domain trying to take whatever it wants. His hands hover over the door as if will alone could open it. He has to stay in case...in case. Caught between reaching out and the useless pain a breath away. As if he isn’t part of the Watcher and could be simply another victim, caught in a fear and insignificant. That’s what Martin does to him.

He shakes his head. He came here for a reason, even if it wasn't worth this. His ridiculous destructive curiosity, lashing out and devouring the moment he indulged it for a second...there was something he was looking for. Someone.

He should try to focus on finding his way back to Martin. There’ll be a way back, eventually. All he has to do is see the way, the same as the route to the Panopticon, and - 

The tape recorder is in his hand. Jon swallows, as if that could do anything against the itch in his throat. It's not the sort of itch that wants water. It does want feeding, though.

"Not now," Jon murmurs, even as he lifts the recorder to his lips. "I have to - I need..."

His eyes fall shut. His head tips back. The Archivist's mouth opens:

"Observations on the correct fulfillment of justice in an unjust world.

“Nathan Thorpe deserves this. He doesn't agree, but it isn't up to him. It used to be up to him, back when he had the money and the friends to decide everything. He joked that he decided who lived and who died, or at least he pretended it was a joke. So easy, really, making the call on who gets their pitiful payouts and who has to go begging. Their own fault, really. They waste their pennies when really it would be so _easy_ for them to pull their lives together. All it takes is the kind of motivation and worthiness Nathan clearly has in abundance. After all, look at all his money. Look at all his friends.

Look at all his money burning.

His friends are nowhere to be seen, naturally. He never liked a single one of them. Still, he wishes someone was here - the chief of police perhaps, or that judge with the fine taste in whiskey, or the MP Nathan made sure would never lose in exchange for a vote people claimed couldn't be bought. Any one of them, to get his money away from him. No matter how he pulls at it, yanks at it, it won't tear. He always had such excellent suits from the best of the tailors who knew better than to whore themselves out on Saville Row. This one is surely the finest he's ever worn. Nathan knows he is better than the people whose lives shouldn't rely on him because he has always dressed the part of the successful businessman. That's another thing people pointlessly struggle with: how they dress. You walk past beggars every day and you know it's their own fault because they'll never get any kind of productive job looking like that.

“It isn't that Nathan wishes he could give his money away now. It's all he has, after all. Bills from all sorts of countries, all together his full net worth, his worth as a man. He just wishes he could take the suit off. He wishes his money wasn't burning.

“Laurence Flamstead couldn't possibly deserve this. How could anyone think he deserves to suffer, with everything he's done for his fellow man? He's raised so much for charity, on top of the vast amounts he's produced from his own pockets. He's wined and dined with the best, and made sure they paid their dues, shamefaced and ready for the answer to their own consciences. He'd circulated at parties and known just what to say to reassure everyone that they could make it right for the right price, a paltry sum really given some of their fortunes. Why, so many people would be worse off without him. He has an MBE for now, but it's only a matter of time. They have to save face, he knows, but he also knows that everyone tells him that he should be a Sir at the very least, just like his father and his father's father.

“He is such a very good man, he knows, that it couldn't possibly matter if he has his little indulgences. Just a small habit, here and there. All these charities ever want is money, and he's willing to give it, so why on Earth should anyone begrudge him such a small fancy? He was helping every one of those children in the great scheme of things. 

“Why won't his skin stop burning? Outside there is a party and it is so very important. They say there'll be royalty there - proper royalty, not the kind debasing themselves with tell-all interviews about how we should help our fellow man. He could do so much good out there, but every time he tries to go to the door, it starts again. This time it is his arm: he looks down to see fabric and skin alike peel back, spelling out an accusation which simply isn't true. Fortunately there are many jackets in the wardrobe - he has always had to make a good impression - and he seizes another one, covering up this latest wound. Never mind the shirt, he hopes.

“His chest sears. This shirt was so expensive, immaculate, and now it's emblazoned with the same insult, the same misunderstanding as that spelled out across his sternum. So much for the extra button left undone to show how relaxed he can be.

“He's two steps from the door, with its polished mirror embedded. He watches and screams as it's etched across his forehead, the same as his cheeks and chin and neck: 

“P-A-E-D-O-P-H-I-L-E.

“He has to go through the door. He has to do good. Surely nobody could ask him to do it, with such slurs on his character burning through his body?

“Arthur Percival Mallory King has earned his job at a certain well-known publishing company. His word is law. He wields indescribable influence in the cultural sector, and any author whom he deems worthy of his attention will rise first to the top of the bestseller lists and then into legend. If they don't, well, they shouldn't have wasted his time. In the age of the Kindle, the continued existence of his publishing house is testament to his wisdom and his shrewd business savvy. All those star-eyed English Literature graduates gather like flies around him, desperate to delude themselves that they can somehow become novelists through mere exposure. Never mind that their internships are unpaid and consume their lives like flames: they will give up everything for the promise of a better tomorrow. Not that he's promised such a thing, oh no. They promise themselves.

“They're all so keen, so eager to do well, and Arthur has been doing this a very long time. He knows all the steps, all the smiles, all the attention it takes for a young lithe twenty-something to slide into bed - assuming there'll be a bed at all. They all want it, after all. He does nothing wrong. Even when all that nonsense erupted a few years back, about how they suddenly wanted to claim they'd been coerced, as if they wouldn't sell out their own mothers for a single zero-hours contract, they kept on coming to him. They kept on joining his company and then joining him in company.

“The figure before him is wreathed in flame. Arthur screams as burning fingers caress him just the way he likes, as they reach down to do exactly what he wants; his screams become muffled as a searing kiss becomes far more literal. He doesn't want this. He doesn't - "

Jon breaks off, breath fast and ragged. It's hot. It's so hot, smoke in the air and heat building beneath his skin. The Archivist stands apart, he thinks, although the thought is so very vague. He half-expects to see his skin crackling, although if it is then it isn't happening on his hand. It's not the comfort he might have expected.

The tape recorder. He suddenly realises the scream is coming from the tape recorder, even though it shouldn't be playing anything back. The only words are the ones from his own throat, the only words that there could possibly be, and yet the tape recorder is _screaming_.

He drops it to the ground as it melts into nothing but plastic.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone, Martin has nobody else to talk to. It's time to make a choice.

"Oh, hello," Martin says. 

"What are you doing here? Hang on, let's see...wow, a tape recorder? I haven't seen one of these in years. Very retro. How'd you end up here?"

The tape recorder doesn't offer any answers. It's recording, he notices, which obviously makes him flush at the thought of that utterly inane train of thought ending up recorded for posterity. As if anyone wants to hear his own ramblings. He certainly doesn't want to, they just sort of happen.

"Did someone leave you here?" he asks, despite still feeling embarrassed and ridiculous. He knows it's stupid, talking to this thing like it's alive, and yet the alternative is...not something he wants to think about. It can stay lurking underneath everything else.

The tape recorder whirs on. Hesitantly, Martin reaches out to pick it up, turning it over to see if there's a name or an address on the underside. That's the right thing to do, after all. Someone might be missing this. He would, if he had one, but then he always gets so stupidly attached to things. 

Nothing underneath, just plain grey plastic. He does notice that something's off about the battery compartment, though. Frowning, he's about to lever it open when he remembers and flips the machine over again to stop it recording first. The stop button echoes oddly in the air, around the room. It's much more _final_ than Martin would have expected. Maybe it's just been that long since he used something analogue. He'd probably think the same thing if he found a VCR.

His fingers skid over the back of the recorder, over and over until he has to admit what's obvious: there isn't a battery compartment. There's just a line on the surface that might as well be drawn on for all the relevance it has. That goes for all the details on the back, actually: they all _look_ right without being real. 

As a suspicion starts to build, he tries hitting the eject button. There's quite clearly a tape in there, yet the casing doesn't open. Could be broken? He tries hitting play, and nothing happens. Of course nothing happens. He hits rewind, and the recorder complains in a high whine that makes him turn it off as fast as possible. Play still doesn't work. The only buttons that work, it looks like, are Stop and Record. Assuming they're really stopping or recording anything.

"You're a funny thing, aren't you?" Martin asks. He thinks about recording. He remembers he doesn't have anything to say.

He should feel more about this, he thinks. He shouldn't just accept it, this thing that doesn't make sense. Still, he sighs, and sits down on the chair he found in the middle of the room. It's just uncomfy enough to notice, not enough to complain about. He should be grateful there's a chair at all.

"I don't suppose you know where we are?" Martin asks. "No, I guess I checked that. Even if you do know, you can't tell me. Stupid, really." He sighs. When he tries to lean back, the chair creaks ominously, in a way that makes him incredibly aware that he is not a small man. At least the chair can take him. It could have collapsed underneath him.

The room is utterly nondescript. No, nowhere is nondescript. That's just a thing that people say when they're not trying, when they're not paying attention. Come on, he's always saying he likes poetry, that he writes it, he must be able to come up with something better. The room is...grey. Blank. God, he's rubbish at this. Why did he ever think he could write this stuff?

"Oh Christ," Martin says, "I entered _competitions_." Everybody heard his pathetic attempts at writing, or read them, or laughed at them. Martin hopes his ended up at the bottom of a box and nobody noticed them. The thought of people reading them, knowing him...

"It's alright for you, you're a machine," Martin says, instantly guilty because it's not like it's the tape recorder's fault it's like that. "I mean - You don't have to deal with people. Or, I guess you do, but it's not the same, is it? You don't have to stand knowing that they can see you, or that they really don't want to, or - Oh, forget it," he finishes with exasperation. He doesn't want to sit down, so he stands up and decides that he doesn't want to stand up either.

"Where am I?" he asks, not expecting an answer. It's an idle question despite the itch that he should care, the same as the details about the recorder. What does it matter? He's here now. "Is this my house? Seems awfully big to be my house. Too big for someone to live alone. I must live alone, mustn't I?"

He jumps as the tape recorder clicks. When he crouches down, he sees that the Record button has depressed itself. "Okay," he says slowly. "That's - That's a thing." He swears the red circle of it is looking at him. No, don't be fanciful. Don't fill your head up with dreams. 

Carefully, keeping an eye on it the whole time, he backs out of the room. The last thing he does is close the door.

Turning around, the first thing he notices are the windows. When he goes over to them, there's nothing outside. No, that can't be right. He looks down at the windowsill and he sees the fog spilling over it, into the house. Right, just fog. "Spooky," he says, and winces at the pathetic ridiculousness of it. That's a kid's word. It's beneath him.

There's a chill coming in from the windows, a chill that's already pervaded the house. Good thing he's alone: he'd be a nightmare of a housemate. Of a friend. Of a son. That's why he lives alone.

"I do live alone, don't I?" he asks out loud. "I must do. Who else would be here?"

Something clicks behind him.

He turns around to see, of all things, a tape recorder. "Oh, hello," he says. 

"How'd you get in here?" Unsurprisingly, there's no response. The tape inside whirs away, and he realises that it's recording. "Oh, stupid," he mutters at himself, "did someone set you running? I've messed that up, haven't I?" Shaking his head, he presses Stop. Impossibly, it thunders. Startled, he tries hitting Record, certain he must have done something wrong.

He hits it again and again. Every time it just pops up again, useless. "Shit," he hisses. The same thing happens with all the other buttons. "Shit shit shit." He broke it. He must have broken it. He doesn't even know who it belongs to, who left it here, but that didn't stop him with his stupid big clumsy fingers. Where do you even buy tape recorders now? How's he supposed to replace it? God, how much do they cost? Can he even afford that? Oh, why did he clear out the attic? Maybe there was one up there.

Blinking, he looks up. The ceiling is quite blank and unremarkable. "I don't have an attic, do I?" he asks no-one.

Carefully, he places the tape recorder on the ground and takes a step back. "Sorry," he says. "I really shouldn't touch things." And he goes out of the door.

It's just a room, really. Dimly he thinks that he should be able to say something about that, but who cares? It's not like he has anything interesting to say. It's not like he has anything to contribute. That's why he's here, isn't it? Alone. 

Something's on a chair in the middle of the floor. Crouching down in front of it, he realises it's a tape recorder. Looking around, a flash of paranoia lights up his thoughts, albeit just for a lightning second before he knows he's being ridiculous. Whoever left this here, they're long gone. It's not even on.

"Did someone abandon you?" he asks. "Or - you're not mine, are you? No, you can't be. I don't own anything like you." That'd be nice, though. He likes the retro thing - gives things a weighty feel, like they mean something. Wincing, he remembers downloading a stupid app onto his phone so it would make typewriter sounds when he typed. What a pretentious idiot. "No wonder Mum couldn't wait for me to grow up," Martin says. "God, I was such a pain, you know?" He laughs, in that he exhales and thinks about how he's a joke. "Still am."

The tape recorder is just a tape recorder.

"No, I'm not a pain," Martin says. "That's still something. I'm just...there. You can hate a pain, but me... People just don't like me. I mean, obviously Mum loved me - " His voice shakes, breaks. "I mean, she must have. She's my mum. That's how it works, right?"

It's funny. Inside his head, there's fog too, hiding shadows. "I loved her too - love her. I said so at the funeral. When I got up there, everyone went quiet and - " He clenches his fist on his thigh. "It was a funeral. Obviously they were quiet. I shouldn't read into it, I shouldn't get so _upset_ \- "

He raises his head and glares. Since there's nothing else in the room, that means he ends up glaring at a piece of plastic that doesn't even work. "No, I'm not upset," he says. "I - I think I'm angry?" Faces staring at him, except for the ones who seemed to be making it a point not to. "No, I don't deserve to be angry, I'm..." He exhales. "I'm nothing. I don't - I don't feel anything, I don't think." As he says that, all of it winds out of him with the air. All he breathes in is fog. 

"That's good," he says. "Not feeling anything. I know there are good things but it's not worth it, is it? It means I'm safe."

He pauses. "Safe."

That means something. He can't say exactly what it is he needs to feel safe _from_ , just that saying it releases something inside him. Some sort of burden. 

"I can survive on my own," he says, carefully, sounding out the words. "If other people hurt me...then I don't have to spend time with them?" A dull numb pain, like pressing on a bruise. "I shouldn't want that, should I? I should...want people to like me. That's good, isn't it? Wanting people to like you? I mean, obviously it's pointless when it comes to me, but...doesn't wanting it make you good?"

He reaches out and taps the tape recorder lightly. There's definitely a tape in there. He wonders what's on it, whether it's anything important. He hopes not. He doesn't think he'd do well with something important. That means you have to start finding people who know what to do about it. He would much rather just sit here, he thinks.

Except no. When he thinks about staying here, he...itches. That's not quite the word but it's close enough and he's really not good at this. As much as he likes being alone, he doesn't like being here. It - It doesn't feel right, and ‘itching’ feels closest because it makes him think about being trapped and that makes him start breathing faster, shallower. He doesn't like that at all. He wants to be calm. In control. He doesn't want to be afraid.

"Is that what I am?" he asks the tape recorder. "Afraid?"

He jumps when the play button clicks down on its own, and he hears his own voice say, "Even the fear is gentle here." At least, he assumes it's his own voice. It's got that high whine to it he hates, too high for a man. Still, it sounds so...blank. Washed out. Defeated.

Another one of those shadows: someone swathed in clothes, hunched over something small. Ignoring him. A wave of helplessness swirls around him. It feels the same way the Martin on the tape sounds.

"It's still fear, though," Martin says. "That's like saying I think I'm safe because I think Mum's asleep." Then, "Wait, no, I'm not scared of her, obviously, that would be _terrible_ \- "

He exhales. "I am though, aren't I? I was." Looking around the room, he's struck by how big it is. It would take him at least five paces to cross it. He can't live here, not with his income; there's no need for all this space; he doesn't know this place. There's no comfort of familiarity. None of his over-treasured books or stupid souvenirs from days that didn't actually matter.

"I'm better alone, because I can't be scared of other people," he tries. "That's what I want, I think: to not be afraid anymore."

The tape recorder plays, "Everyone's alone in the end, but we all survive."

"I don't just want to survive," Martin says, then jolts because he really isn't sure where the words came from. He touches his lips, as if he might feel the string pulling at them. Inside his head, he heard it in a much deeper voice. 

Shaken, he stands up and blunders through the door.

“Oh, hello.”

On the windowsill, precarious, is a tape recorder. When he steps closer, he sees there are cobwebs creeping over it. Funny: he hasn't seen any spiders. Hasn't seen anything else, actually.

"Been here long?" he jokes, glad that at least a machine can't judge him for how pathetic that sounds. In fact, looking closer, this machine hasn't done anything for a long time. He shivers. It's one thing knowing nobody's here; it's something else knowing nobody ever will be.

"Someone abandoned you?" he asks. "Don't worry. It happens to the best of us." The easy rhythm of the self-deprecation soothes him. 

"I think someone else was here," he says. "Obviously someone left you, but - I think they were here at the same time as me. Maybe. I - " He swallows. "He. He left me here. He led me here and he left me here." He looks down at his hands. His right hand twitches, like it's holding on to someone. "Or - No, I fell down. I'm clumsy like that. Too big, that's what Mum always said." In answer, his knee twinges, where before it didn't feel any different.

Hesitantly, he brushes a finger against the top of the tape recorder. There's no dust, surprisingly. Usually he'd expect that, with the cobwebs. With the - 

He swears. "Shit, is this a Web thing?" The words come out so easily, naturally, that it's only after he says them that he realises he has no idea what they mean. Or - no, he does know. There's fog in his head but he knows how to deal with that. The other stuff, not so much.

"Annabelle," he groans, reaching up as if he could pull cobweb out of his mind. Instead he just tangles his fingers in curls and yanks. The pain is sharp, completely different to the Lonely. Which is where he is. Where he keeps ending up.

"Annabelle, I'm past this," he lies. "I was in the Lonely and he - Jon got me out. You can't strand me in here."

He whirls around on the spot, as if he honestly thinks he'll find her standing just behind him in a screech of violins like a horror movie monster. Instead there's just the empty room, like all the rooms he's walked through. "Is that the trap? Trick Jon into leading me here?" Sharks can smell the slightest trace of blood in miles of ocean. Who knows what a Lonely domain makes of him? Especially with the way Martin pulled it into him, when the world ended. The fog-solid way home.

Wait.

He takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Settles his mind into that numbness he lived in while Jon was wasting away in the safehouse - the house that just wanted Martin to linger, that didn't like him going out into the garden, he sees that now. He thought that was his own guilt over Jon. 

Walking over to the next door, he glares at it. Peter never took him into the Lonely, not until he sent Martin there out of fucking pique. Martin tricked him and played him and Peter couldn't think of anything to do but strand him out on a fog-washed beach. Martin doesn't hate the beach, or love it, or care all that much. Jon's the one who grew up by the seaside; Martin's only ever known cities. Same as this house: it's not a house he's ever known, and for all that he can feel trapped in a single room, he never wandered through anywhere as large as this. Some people find large houses isolating, he knows that. He's just never experienced it. Closest he's had is the Institute, and honestly, he kind of liked that. He never felt scared of it - at least, not because of its size. He didn't feel alone there, and while he's had his head messed with plenty, his memories are _his_. You can't take that from someone who works in the Archives.

He places a hand against the door. "I'm not afraid of being Lonely," he says. 

Behind him, the tape recorder plays in Jon’s voice, "What makes you think I stopped hating it?"

"I don’t," Martin says. "But it's not up to you. And I can't stay human just to make you feel better."

It's unfair. If Jon heard it, it would sting, burrowing down deep. It would make him feel alone, because Martin _does_ have a way with words and he shouldn't indulge it when people aren't prepared, aren't _safe_ from him. 

He can sense it in his mind now, in the air around him: the exact way the fog curls and creeps, curious, captivating. It curls around his arm, more like a cat than anything else. There's a presence in it, or an absence of one - there aren't exactly words for the Lonely, but that's alright. Martin doesn't have to explain it to anyone else.

In the end, it's as easy as opening a door. There's yet another room, but this time it has an indistinct staircase; as he descends, Martin senses someone nearby, and he looks up to see a blur that could be a person ducking through another door, further into the house. There's someone next door as well, he knows: they're staring out of the window, hoping something will appear outside that's better than whatever they might find in here. Suddenly, he knows that this domain is just full of people, none of whom can see each other. It's cruel, obviously. Unfortunately, he also knows that the world outside isn't going to be any sort of improvement for them. Really, as much as the Lonely hurts, there are worse Fears. 

He knows whoever is watching over this domain won't like it, but Martin sends out a thought that at least every one of them should have a book. This is just boring. Wouldn't it be better if they can distract themselves, just for a moment? If they could lie to themselves that they don’t mind being alone.

Somehow he doubts the avatar in charge will agree. He really doesn't care.

The handle turns, and he walks out of the front door.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A melted tape recorder and some burning questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amazing Desolation!Tim moodboard is courtesy of [bisexualoftheblade](https://bisexualoftheblade.tumblr.com/post/636765597043212288/here-is-one-of-my-pieces-for-triffidsandcuckooss), who also did the Web quote a couple of chapters ago as well as the titlecard for the fic!

Who knows how long it's been? Jon isn't keeping track. Jon isn't thinking much of anything, staring at the heap of burning plastic in the middle of the street.

This isn't London, though it could easily hollow out a nest there for its upmarket rows of high end offices, chock-full of rich entitled men who run the world. Every building front oozes capitalism: factory-produced one-of-a-kind cafes; hole-in-the-wall restaurants aching to empty your wallet; exquisite impractical trinket shops like a Christmas card. Jon's known streets like this in Oxford, Edinburgh, all over. He's never been comfortable with them, but there's a difference between his skin crawling and prickling with heat.

Carefully he turns over his right hand again, looking at where he had been holding the tape recorder. Since he brought about the end of the world, he's been wearing gloves. He lost one to the door the same time he lost Martin. Now he can see his other palm again, and the seared mark from the burnt plastic. It's imposed itself over the older burn, trying to erase Jude. Perhaps it will fade into its own angry paleness, or perhaps becoming fully the Archivist protects him from Desolation as well as the Flesh. Rather than trying to Know, he hopes: hopes the eyes on that hand won't recover. Please, let them be blind.

Stepping backwards, he collapses onto a ridiculous wrought-iron bench. In London, it would emit spikes to ‘discourage’ the homeless; here, the right kind of person would find it transformed into a bed of hot coals. The Desolation does not embrace subtlety. Beneath Jon, it remains overheated metal, hissing with displeasure when he doesn’t scream. 

His lips tingle. The bleeding tape recorder ripped a gap in his stomach as much as in his senses. He sways a little with the loss. Why hasn’t another manifested? How could he have been abandoned by even this?

Without a receptacle, Martin or machine, he can't narrate the moment that he isn't alone anymore. Instead, he can only raise his face of eyes to observe the man standing to his right with heat haze rising from his skin. Shame: when he’s the subject, he can’t hurt anyone else.

He wets his lips, so very dry in the suddenly scorching air, and he says, "Hello, Tim."

"God, that felt good," Tim says, arms crossed and a crooked smile on his face as he looks at the heap of plastic in the middle of the road. "Do you know how much I've wanted to do that?"

"I probably could," Jon says wearily. "Would you like me to?"

"Hmm," Tim performs, a finger to his chin in mock-thought, "do I want to ask my creepy monster boss to read my mind?”

"Fair enough." Jon tries folding his hands together; winces and instead curls them against the iron. That pain’s duller. "I suppose there's no point in observing that you're meant to be dead."

"What, after a teeny tiny explosion to the face?" Tim laughs, a long way from carefree or his old imitation of it. "Didn't stop you for that long. But I suppose the rest of us aren't _special_ the way you are. Must be tough, surviving."

"It was. It is," Jon adds, for all that Tim won't care in the slightest. He doesn’t look up. "Tim, I'm - "

"No." Tim stabs a finger at his face and Jon has the strong impression of _ignition_. "No, don't you _dare_ say you're sorry. I don't care whether you think you are or whether you're just pantomiming it, I'm _not interested_."

Jon swallows. "I was going to say that I'm glad you're alive."

"Oh, _are you_?" Tim demands. "You're _glad_ , are you, that I didn't go out in a blaze of glory? That I didn't even get to _die_? That this whole fucked up mess has me so tangled up in its own bullshit that I can't even do the most basic human thing at all? Is that what you're glad about?"

Don’t look, Jon tells himself. You don’t want to see it. You don’t want to see what matches that hollowness to a voice, where the humanity used to be. It sounds like waking up in a hospital when you shouldn’t. "The same thing happened to me."

"Yeah, no, it really didn't." Tim scoffs. "I got 'lucky' at the last minute. You - Oh, we both know there was nothing about luck with you. Set-up from the start, wasn't it? Just the Archivist with his parade of sacrificial lambs."

"I never thought of you that way."

"It’s what we were."

Jon sighs, leaning forward to rest his weight on his forearms, on his thighs, on anything really. He really is just very very tired. "If it helps, I am glad you're alive."

"I really don't give a fuck how you feel about it."

"Regardless." He lifts a shoulder, as close to a shrug as he can muster. "Given the amount of people I've known who have died, or are about to die, or wish they'd died, this actually counts as a positive development for me."

"You know what that makes _you_ , right?" If Jon raised his eyes - any of them - Jon could see what the new world has made of Timothy Stoker. What Jon made of him.

"Quite the new look you've got going there, Boss," Tim says, and Jon shivers because no, it is far worse to hear the old nickname loaded with such loathing. Tim inhales in the same moment, and Jon thinks of aged wines. "No pun intended."

Jon keeps his head turned towards his hands; unfortunately, his left hand is turned upwards, and so he can still see the way Tim is leaning forward, arms still crossed. From this angle, he’s reminded of nothing so much as a predator reflected in a watering hole, somewhere between intimidation and scenting. "You missed a few developments while you were...elsewhere." He huffs a laugh. "That was quite a trick, hiding from the Watcher. How did you - "

He breaks off into a muffled scream as Tim's hand slaps over his mouth. It only lasts a moment but his mind is instantly flooded with the statement of Jack Barnabas, requesting one kiss from Agnes Montague and scarring himself for life. Were he a more fanciful man, Jon would guess that he can feel his flesh bubbling. Hard to tell whether the cooked meat is from his face or his hands.

Tim lets him go and Jon heaves in a gasp of boiling hot air. This close, it's not just the air above Tim's skin that shimmers, it's everywhere. Jon makes an attempt to blink the sweat out of a few of his eyes. He can't move to wipe it away, or at least his arms don't want to move.

"No questions," Tim says. His face would seem blank, except Jon knew Tim for years before death and there's such a glint in his eyes, a match struck in the dark. "Frankly, I'm tempted just to burn your mouth off. Melt the skin so you can't get a single word out. You've already talked too much."

It's a very serious threat. Perhaps that's why Jon does not remain silent. "That's assuming that you'd be able to."

"Oh, I'm fully capable of that, trust me."

"That's not what I meant." The familiar giddy vertigo feeling, of looking certain pain and a mortal death in the face, teetering on the precipice. Hard to put into words exactly how his mind races in times like this, the way he wants to know what he can get away with, how far he can push. Always a weakness. Stupid. "The rules are a little different now. You can hurt me, certainly, but not permanently."

"Do you really want to put that to the test?" Tim's hand grips the iron bench by Jon's shoulder. He can feel it heating, warping.

"Honestly?" Jon laughs, a little giddily. "I have to say, I am curious."

"Of fucking course you are," Tim spits. There's a sizzling sound, a small hole in Jon's sleeve. "You never fucking stop, do you? What, you end the world and that's still not enough for you?" When Jon starts to ask - when Jon stops himself from asking - Tim’s laugh sounds like scraped charcoal. "The whole world goes to shit, the sky starts looking back, and I knew, I just _knew_ it was something to do with you."

Jon opens his mouth, only what exactly can he say? Tim has no interest in explanations and there’s no point in arguing because he's right: Jon did end the world. No point in bringing Elias into it; Jon isn't dodging responsibility for this. If there's one thing he's learnt from the Web, it's that being what he is - being the Archivist - absolves him of nothing. It's that or he becomes like Helen - or, he thinks as his vision fills with brown eyes full of flame, he becomes like Tim.

"Given how you felt about the Archives," Jon says slowly, carefully with cracked lips, "I'm surprised you decided to take up with another patron."

"Oh, fuck off," Tim says, achingly familiar. "What, you actually buy into all that 'patron' bullshit Elias spouted? You know what patrons actually are? They give you money so you do what they want. It's a fancy word for control, just like everything else."

"Regardless," Jon says, "you made your feelings extremely clear. Enslaved to the Archives and all that. Why - " He catches himself as Tim's face darkens. "And yet you went straight from the Eye to the Desolation. A power which, I might remind you, is defined by a literal cult." It's a lie, the last part. The longer he spends here, in Tim's domain, the more it opens up and spills into his mind. The Desolation, defined by the Cult of the Lightless Flame as far as the Eye is by the Archives, the Lonely by the Lukases, and all the rest. 

"Do you see a cult happening here?" Tim asks. "Sort of a shitty Archivist, if that's really what you think."

"What I think doesn't matter." It's the truth, and he can _taste_ that Tim knows it. 

"What you _know_ doesn't matter either." Braced on the red-hot metal, Tim reaches out as if to lift Jon's chin. Jon does it himself, or possibly he's moved by a solid heat centred on that single finger. "Do you get that, Boss? I don't care how clever you are or if you have all the answers. You still came here. Why come here when you knew what was waiting for you?"

"I - " Jon swallows. The heat is caressing his neck, creeping down under his scarf as sure as a touch. He hasn't needed to eat or drink since Elias spoke the Archivist into its full power, and yet now his throat gasps for water. Or perhaps not water. For something. He is supposed to merely observe, he has taken a statement from this domain already, and yet every nerve ending is tingling, all of his senses fixated on this moment. It's the most solid and most scared he's felt since... he doesn't know.

Pointlessly, he tries to wet his lips. His tongue is so dry, and Tim tracks the motion. "I didn't know exactly what would be here."

"But you did choose to come here," Tim says. "It's not a coincidence. It can't be."

Jon blinks a little at that last part. "I knew you were here."

"And you were hoping for a reunion? Getting lonely in the apocalypse? Or did you feel like gloating? Roaming around to find the only people who have ever put up with your stupid face?"

The questions make him twitch like a frog on a wire. Every one rankles, fingers on a blackboard, a violation. "I wasn't alone," he says, faintly. That aches, and this time he can see the shiver travelling up Tim's arm, hairs standing on end as Jon remembers anew that he left Martin, abandoned him, stranded him where he can't find him anymore.

Tim leans down, placing his mouth close to Jon's ear. The air from his mouth ripples against him. "You are now," he says.

"Yes." Perhaps he did know. Perhaps he realised exactly what would happen here - the person, the power - and that's why he charged off. If there's one thing Jon doesn't know, it's his own mind. 

When Tim kisses him, the darkness is a relief he doesn't deserve.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin meets a familiar face. Hopefully the person wearing it is also familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's art is from the talented bisexualoftheblade. Leave them some compliments [here](https://bisexualoftheblade.tumblr.com/post/636765581007372289/here-is-one-of-my-pieces-for-triffidsandcuckooss)!

The apocalypse looks different through the fog. At first Martin steps carefully, until he remembers that isn't the way not to be noticed. Then he walks normally, as far as anybody can claim to do that, relying on his own insignificance in anybody's eyes. The boundaries between domains still aren't visible, but he can see how the fog shifts, billowing sideways and up ahead. He can feel it whenever he pushes through and drags the fog in his wake.

Dim details of the domains filter through to him, although he doesn't care, really. He doesn't care when he sees massive roots coursing over the earth and he doesn't care about the beacon of a theatre sign. He hesitates a little at the sight of the burning building, an echo in his head of watching flames reaching towards the sky, but in the end he still keeps on walking. That's what matters, after all: one foot in front of the other, getting where he needs to go.

He can't sense Jon. That isn’t him being dramatic: he _can’t_. When he tries to reach out, the Lonely bends around him to the point where it’s about to snap and leave him stranded and defenceless. It's like dealing with a cat or - he smiles wryly then has to wipe it away - an archivist. Talking your way around it. It isn't that Martin wants company - Jon is enough for him. It would be easier without Jon but that isn't the point at all, and the Lonely complains but its corridor doesn't collapse.

It's possible he could be walking forever, looking forever. That's okay, though, and Martin lets himself fancy that the Lonely lets out a purr. A figure wandering the Earth in solitude, always aware of someone missing: it's perfect. It's poetic, for all that Martin has never once considered himself remotely worthy of a poem (the Lonely loves that too). Ridiculous, really. Jon's the one who’s Orpheus. Eurydice never did much of anything. 

Hard to say what makes him notice the domain coming up on the right. He's avoided so many without thinking about it that there's no real reason for his attention to suddenly catch like this. And that's what it feels like: catching. 

Raising a hand, he notices with a heavy weariness that beads of moisture are forming on a strand of thread leading away from him, towards that domain. "You really are giving up, aren't you?" he asks. Either Annabelle hears him or she doesn't, and either way that's her problem. Weirdly, he finds that if anything he's a bit offended. There he was, all ready to wander the apocalyptic wasteland, and then it's like there's a giant neon sign in the middle of his gothic revival. Still, after the old Nokia he found buried and Jon's description of a phone box, he's getting that Annabelle is surprisingly uninterested in artistic aesthetics. Who knows, maybe that's a Web thing too?

Figuring there's nothing to gain by pretending otherwise, he keeps the thread raised and follows it into the domain. Underfoot, the damp grass gives way to damp concrete as his fog billows out ahead of him. Buildings loom towards him, ominous silhouettes in the gloom. It makes him think of getting up early for shitty jobs, when the sun hadn't risen enough to burn away the nighttime: that grey and washed-out mystery slinking through the streets. He'd loved those days, actually, for all that he could never keep the thoughts they inspired in his head long enough to get any of it down on paper. They had a way of making the city seem more ethereal, a step beyond all the businesses and exploitation. 

He stops close to a window, wondering whether this domain bothers to fill up the shops or they're just an affectation. There's a suggestion of suits, although that's nowhere near as strong as the suggestion of money. Not very helpful for working out the power here. Still, for all that she's really weird and interfering, it at least feels like Annabelle isn't on Elias' side, and Martin will take that if it means he finds Jon any sooner. He can worry about the scary spider lady when he has his boyfriend back.

Martin hadn’t realised what else he couldn’t see in the window - not until his reflection fades into view with possibly one of the goofiest grins he's ever seen. He clears his throat and moves on.

The loneliness in this domain isn't (just) coming from him. He doesn’t realise it at first - the only loneliness he’s used to sensing is his own - but suddenly it dawns on him and it’s like he can’t stop seeing it. Sure, he might not actually _want_ to see a whole lot of people suffering when he can't do anything to help them, but it shouldn’t just be him here. It’s a domain, after all. 

Like he’s summoned it personally, he notices one office building does have signs of life: a single light high-up, in what he supposes is the penthouse. His stomach twists a little as he looks up at that window, at the way that light flickers in a decidedly not-good way. The fog pushes petulantly at him and he waves it away. "I'm not getting involved," he says. That's Jon's thing. "I can still feel bad."

If it’s possible for a meteorological manifestation of an eldritch fear god to grumble, then that's definitely the sound Martin hears. As it is, he's grown up polite enough not to comment. He walks on.

At every intersection he pauses to inspect the thread, and every time the domain opens out again it's more and more obvious to him that the emptiness runs deeper than just a lack of people. All these grand shops, empty; all these buildings, abandoned. When he inhales through his nose, through the dampness of the fog he gets a whiff of sunbaked pavement that puts him more in mind of ruins, of those heatwave days when just stepping outside takes too much effort. When the world feels post-apocalyptic, he supposes.

Glancing behind him, he realises that he can tell exactly where he's been by the small puffs of steam rising up from the tarmac. Apparently the cold isn't just inside him anymore.

Certain directions feel lonelier than others; Martin can't think of another way to put it, and he can only hope that when he finds Jon he won't have to explain. That's Jon's thing now, after all: knowing things. Assuming Jon will still talk to him, which is definitely a bit of a leap, but Martin finds that he can't accept _not_ looking for him. The instinct's there alright, his usual impulse to fade away and be forgotten. For once, though, something else keeps overriding it for him, without a pep talk or some mindfulness video. (Old habits, those; revived a little in the safehouse in Jon's voice.) Like he wants to actually hear Jon reject him, maybe? Yeah, that fits. That sounds like him.

At first it seems like a coincidence, the way the thread keeps pulling towards the lonelier feelings. It takes too long for Martin to remember that there aren't a whole lot of coincidences in their lives (something Jonah is largely responsible for, killing the excitement of discovery in Jon’s face). What's he supposed to make of that? The Lonely trying to account for him not quite falling in line? Except no, it's definitely coming from outside, beyond him. 

It’s a surprise to walk round another corner and walk straight into someone.

It's an even bigger surprise when he realises who it looks like.

"Fuck!" the thing yells, as Martin's fight or flight instinct results in what was probably a pretty pathetic punch. Then it says, "Martin?" with so much incredulity that Martin hesitates with the presumably also pathetic follow-up. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm not in this domain," Martin tells the thing, "I'm just passing through, so you can stop wearing his face." Funny, he'd sort of assumed this was one of the Desolation's little horror shows; assumed the Lonely was responsible for magnifying anything else. Who knows, maybe the Stranger's taken to infiltrating other domains to get its kicks - or its victims.

"Stop wearing my - " Abruptly the confusion contorting that familiar face switches to anger. That's good, Martin thinks - closer to what he'd expect. "I could say the same thing to you! Why Martin, of all people?"

"Hey!" Martin crosses his arms, scowling. "Why not me?"

Despite it being an unbelievably weak argument, it seems to make the thing hesitate. Maybe it just has no idea where to go with that. "Wait, so it is actually you?" Then it looks around him, taking a step back. "What's with the dry ice? Where'd you pick that up?"

"Oh fuck off," Martin says, aware he'd probably blush if he felt a little warmer. "You know full well what it is." With a sinking feeling, he demands, "Did Annabelle send you? Is that face supposed to, what, make me forget I'm looking for Jon?"

"Christ, seriously?" There was this thing Tim used to do, every time he got exasperated, which generally meant every time Martin's small thing for their boss came up in the conversation (usually through Tim forcing it like breaking a bone). He'd reach up and scrunch his hair, in such a way and with such a lost expression on his face that Martin always pictured it like Tim was trying to squash his brain into some sort of useful shape where everything made sense. He stopped doing it not long before the end (his end), either because Tim didn't get exasperated or he just didn't talk to Martin anymore.

Seeing this thing do it makes Martin's heart break, so instead he gets angry. " _Seriously_ , what kind of a plan is that? The world ended, that doesn't bring people back from the dead!"

"Wait, hold on." The thing that looks like Tim holds up both index fingers. Martin should probably be flattered that it's trying so hard to convince him, nailing all those little mannerisms. Any moment now it'll wink and Martin'll right back to blushing behind his small desk in the Archives. "You're definitely Martin. There must be some way of convincing you I'm definitely Tim, yeah?"

Martin splutters. "Are you seriously asking me to do your job for you? Is the Web getting that desperate?"

"The fuck makes you think I'm the Web?"

"Because I think the Stranger would try a little harder," Martin snaps. "It did with Sasha, after all."

To his surprise, the thing’s eyebrows slowly lower as its face darkens. "Don't you bring her into this. That's not fair."

"Am I seriously supposed to care about whether I'm making this _fair_ for you?" Martin throws his hands up in the air. "So many people have died, I think I'm a little bit done with trying to make avatars happy."

"But you're still hung up on Jon," it says, shaking its head. "Christ, who knew that was going to be the universal constant? Fucking ridiculous."

"Oh, just call it pathetic," Martin snaps. "It's what he'd do. Might as well do the same."

"I never called you 'pathetic'," it says. Then it rolls its eyes and says, "Okay, I might have called your crush 'pathetic', just not to your face. Even I've got more tact than that."

It's uncanny. Martin _knows_ that this _can't_ be Tim, but he keeps coming so close to falling for it because whatever’s doing this has done such a good job at it. It hurts, plain and simple. So he does what he has to whenever he hurts, and he speaks very calmly. "Look. I'm not putting up with this. I have places to be. So, just tell me whether you've seen Jon, and I'll leave you to whatever games you'd rather be playing."

The thing with Tim's face and Tim's voice crosses its arms. "What makes you think he's here?"

"I didn't say that," Martin says. "I asked whether you'd seen him. So he's here, is he?"

The thing blinks. Then a very slow smile spreads over its face, with a flash of teeth exactly where Tim would have it. "Damn, I always forget how sneaky you can be when you want to be." It says it with so much affection that Martin, who's more than used to insults and dismissal, stumbles.

"Yeah, well," he says, playing for time through his flustered thoughts (Jon, think of Jon), "you're not bad at being as distracting as Tim."

"For fuck's sake - "

"If Jon was here," Martin says, "right here, right now, what would you say to him?"

"What sort of a question is that?"

"The one I'm asking. If you had the Archivist that everybody around here seems to have heard of, what would you say?"

It raises a hand into the air as if it thinks it can literally pluck the answer out of nothing. Martin waits, because this is important. He needs to know whether this is the kind of monster he can work with or the kind to avoid. (It's stolen Tim's face, so obviously it's also the kind he needs Jon to hurt. Martin's still too new to this to figure out how to kill, especially the avatars.)

"'Fuck off'?" it suggests.

Martin feels himself go still. "What?"

"I mean, I don't care what fancy titles he's going around telling people. He's still _Jon_ ," he almost literally spits the name out onto the tarmac, "and he can just fuck right off."

Martin can't breathe. Martin might not actually be breathing, and maybe that's why he's going light-headed and not the way that the thing - that _Tim_ is looking at him, closely, increasingly worried, because it's _Tim_ and Tim's face always used to be an open book to him and -

Hands hover just by his shoulders. "Hey. Martin, you still with me?"

In a rush of air, Martin asks, "What the fuck?"

"Excuse me?"

"What the _fuck_?" Martin repeats. It really is something that bears saying more than once. "How are you - How did - " He keeps breaking off as giddy breathless laughs bubble out of him. This is insane. The apocalypse happened and this is the impossible thing. This can't be happening. The universe does not give Martin nice things, that's a constant (the world had to end to make up for Jon). "Oh my God, _Tim_!"

"Oh, _finally_ ," Tim says, sounding exasperated but grinning all the same, and that voice, that face, it’s all absolutely Tim. "I've known paranoid, you know that, but _wow_ , that was intense."

"Sorry," Martin says, feeling himself grinning back with muscles he hasn't used since the Highlands, "a lot's happened since I last saw you. I mean, _a lot_. Oh shit," he adds, realising, "I punched you!"

"Yeah, you did." Tim rubs his face, at an odd dark patch on his cheek. "Not great, but I'm still impressed. Always did peg you for the one who'd go vicious in a scrap. You've got that whole..." He gestures vaguely. "I don't know, like a stray cat only also a puppy? Never did manage to nail it down." His grin turns decidedly more salacious, like they've gone out for drinks again. "And that's pegging and nailing already covered."

"Seriously, Tim?" Martin asks, and really he couldn't be happier. "We're standing around in a spooky domain after the apocalypse and you're talking about - about _that_?"

Shrugging, Tim says, "You can't blame me for noticing. Some of us have reputations to keep up."

"Yeah, but you haven't talked like that since - " Martin cuts himself off. It's too late though: the memories stab sharply, of Tim turning sullen and explosive by turns, stalking through the tunnels and barely recognisable. Not like this Tim. This is Tim the way Martin likes to remember him, he realises with a deep sinking feeling. As the fog presses in closer at his back, he can't help it: he's looking for the clues again, the hints in Tim's face that he could be lying, that this could all still be a trick.

"Martin?" Tim peers closer, crossing his arms tighter against his chest like a straitjacket. "What's going on? What happened to you, anyway? You look..." Apparently there's no word for how Martin looks, or at least no word Tim's willing to say to his face. "I'm glad you're here," he says, and then his face twists like he tried to chew a lemon.

"Yeah, you sure do look like it," Martin tells him. "I could ask you the same thing. How did you get here? What are you doing here? Is this - " He glances around, lowering his voice. "Do you need me to get you out?"

"Get me out of where?" Tim's speaking quieter as well, only he doesn't sound afraid so much as amused. "The street? Martin, if you wanted a drink, you only had to say."

"Stop doing that!" When Tim opens his mouth, Martin interrupts. "That. You know exactly what. The - The flirting thing."

"'The flirting thing'," Tim echoes, still smiling like this is some sort of joke.

"The thing where you act like you're just some empty-headed..." Martin won't say the first word that comes into his head. "It's never worked on me, and you know it. So why bother?"

Finally, Tim stops smiling. He looks more like the bad days when that happens. Martin relaxes. "What is it you want to know, then? Is that what we're doing?"

"Oh, for - " Martin bites back the frustration. "Tim, drop it, _please_ , just for now. I'm asking if you need help getting out of here."

"And you think you can help?" Tim asks, that cruel edge back in his voice. The fantasy's breaking apart now, apparently. The more it does, the more certain Martin is that this is Tim. "Enlighten me, what exactly could you do? This isn't exactly the sort of thing that tea fixes."

This time Martin literally sinks his teeth into his lip. The fog sinks into his skin. "Just tell me."

"You sound like him." From the way Tim practically wretches up the words, there's no point in asking who he means.

"Tim," Martin says, steadily. "I am looking for him. You can't stop me doing that. But I'm not leaving you here, either. So tell me what I have to do."

"Have you ever managed that?" Tim asks, with the confident taunt of someone who knows precisely what the answer is going to be and can't wait to preen themselves in the face of it. "Rescued anyone? Unless an awful lot’s changed, I don't think there's anything you can do."

The Lonely breathes down Martin's neck. Technically it's just fog, just the way the air moves, and yet for a horrible flash Martin fancies he can feel Peter at his back. It jolts him, that sickening powerlessness, the threat of that voice. Martin's never enough for anything, for anyone. "Maybe if you actually asked me to help," he says through gritted teeth. "Maybe if, just _once_ , _one person_ doesn’t keep letting everything get worse and worse. _God forbid_ we actually talk about our problems!"

Tim raises his eyebrows. "There isn't anything to talk about."

"So you want to stay here?" 

"There's nowhere else to go, Martin."

"Yes, there is." As he says it, Martin wonders whether he should. Then he wonders why he would even hesitate. Surely it's better to have three people against all this, not two? More if Jon was telling the truth, about trying to find the others. Yes, that was only because Martin asked, but that's something. That's making a difference. "Tim, we're going to find Elias."

"Oh, you've actually gone insane," Tim says. "That's nice, I was worried for a moment there."

"Really."

With a single harsh laugh, Tim demands, " _Why_? Why the fuck would you actually want to find that creep?"

"Because Jon can kill him." When Tim doesn't immediately twist that round and throw it back in his face, Martin takes a breath and repeats himself. "Jon can kill him. He's - He's different, now. After all this. I don't understand exactly how but he can kill avatars."

Tim's face is blank. "Can he now." It should be a question. Tim doesn't make it sound like one though.

Martin raises his chin, forcing himself to meet those simmering eyes. "He killed Sasha." He frowns. "Well, not Sasha. The thing that killed her. It's gone. Dead. Exploded, really."

"'Exploded'." Tim's pulling back, he realises. Not stepping away, nothing that obvious, just a definite sense that he's getting further away. 

"It's sort of hard to describe," Martin admits. It doesn't help that at the time he was honestly more excited than anything else. "We were going to find more of them, maybe get some sort of justice done, finally hurt them back, only then Jon sensed someone and - " He blinks. "It was you!"

Frowning, Tim says, "Me?"

"God, that makes so much sense! No wonder he charged off like that, if he knew you were alive!" That's just Jon all over, isn't it? Make him into some spooky horror avatar and he still charges through Hell for someone he cares about. Martin had already forgiven him for leaving him behind - Martin tripped, the Lonely stole him, however you put it, it wasn't Jon's fault - but now he does it all over again anyway. That's Jon, he thinks. It never stops being Jon.

Tim doesn't seem anywhere near as excited. In fact, he's starting to look properly angry, his face pulling into a scowl that promises a mood much darker than his old flashes of temper. All of a sudden, the cold creeping through Martin stops being the Lonely. Maybe it never was. Or maybe the Lonely was trying to warn him.

And he makes the connection. Too slow, too late. Again.

"Jon would have come here," he says. "When he lost me. If he couldn't get back, he would have carried on. If he knew you were close."

"He lost you," Tim repeats. "Fucking typical."

"Tim." With barely a thought, the fog builds behind Martin, soothing, engulfing. He can see Tim's shadow on the baked tarmac of the road, with its cracks and heat haze. It flickers at the edges. Martin hasn't been subtle since he came here, since he found Tim and stopped trying to sneak through, to avoid whoever might not care for the intrusion of another power. Nobody has come to confront him, though. Only Tim.

"Tim. What did you do to him?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's enjoying this so far! Please do leave a comment if so, I'd love to know what you're thinking so far!


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